


Resisting Arrest

by crazynadine



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bar fights, Bars and Pubs, Boys Kissing, Cop Mickey, Dirty Talk, Homophobic Language, Ian's not bipolar, Kinda, Kink Negotiation, Light BDSM, Like barely hinting at BDSM, Lip's not a drunk, M/M, Oral Sex, Pet Names, Slurs, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-27 23:20:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21126914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazynadine/pseuds/crazynadine
Summary: Ian just wants to hang out with his brother. But a homophobe at the bar ruins all that. When the cops come, he's shockingly attracted to his arresting officer. He makes a fool of himself, of course.Mickey's just trying to do his job. But this drunken redheaded idiot with the big mouth and beautiful eyes is making it hard to stay professional.





	Resisting Arrest

**Author's Note:**

> so this was based on a prompt from the Gallavich Bookclub Facebook page. I know, it's been ages. But I can only write when inspired. Hopefully, this handful of words makes up for the wait.

"Ian, leave it." Lip insisted, a little desperate. "Who gives a fuck what that guy thinks?" 

Ian growled, puffing his chest out, glaring at the stranger. He ignored his brother, intent on winning this stare down. 

"Yeah, man." the guy said, smirking. "Listen to your boyfriend. You don't wanna get hurt." 

Ian saw red. Moved to jump out of his seat, but Lip held him back. "Let it go, man. We're supposed to be having fun tonight." 

Ian sighed, nodding. He pointedly turned his back on the asshole on the other side of the bar, trying to focus on his brother, and the conversation they'd been having. 

Ian was just trying to enjoy a rare night out with his brother. They were both grown, had lives of their own, and it was hard to get away to hang out. 

Lip had finished college, a semester late, but still. Partying too hard during his freshman and sophomore years had Ian's family convinced Lip was going to follow in Frank's booze-drenched footsteps. Luckily for his brother, it wasn't that serious, and after taking a month off to dry out, Lip's alcohol problem was tempered. (otherwise, Ian wouldn't even be at the bar with him right now.) Nowadays, Lip sticks to a few drinks, only ever when he's out and about. 

Sometimes Ian still worries. Still has that fear that Lip's social drinking will turn into addiction. But there's not much he can do. Lip's grown, he makes his own decisions. Ian will just do what he always does: watch his back and take care of him if the need arises. 

Like Lip does for him. 

Ian had his own close call with bad Gallagher genetics, not long after his sixteenth birthday. He'd been seeing this neighborhood boy, on the down low. Not long after Kash had run away with his cross-dressing lover, Ian had found a new boy of his own. Sam had been fun, in that clean cut, never-do-anything-wrong, choir boy kinda way. He was the sort of person you don't meet on the south side very often. Lived in one of the better kept houses on the block, parents still married, older sister off at college on a full ride for nursing. 

Sam had a future. Plans. Places he wanted to see, things he wanted to do. He was the best of the best, as far as Ian was concerned. 

And he'd wanted Ian. Which was amazing in it's own right. 

But of course, there was a catch.

That catch ending up being the thing that tore them apart. 

The catch being that Sam was bisexual. Not that there was a single thing wrong with that, in theory. In practice, however, it meant that Sam could play it straight all he wanted. Dating and fucking girls from the neighborhood, and fucking Ian on the side. 

On the very secret, covert side. 

Ian didn't want to be anyone's dirty little secret. Not even perfect, beautiful Sam. His blue eye and blond hair couldn't make up for the fact that he had no desire to claim Ian publicly. His tall, lithe body and huge warm hands couldn't soothe the fact that Ian wasn't important enough to be honest. His incredible intelligence and kind nature couldn't mask the fact that Ian just wasn't all that important to him. 

So Ian had cut things off, cut out that part of his heart and stowed it away. Sam disappeared after that. Met a girl he'd go on to date through the rest of high school. Going on to marry that same girl, moving with her to Texas when he joined the Marines.

Moving on with his life like Ian had never been part of it at all. 

Ian didn't move on so easily. He fell into a deep depression. Stopped going to school, stopped eating. Hell, he didn't leave his bed for weeks. Too consumed by loss and the pain of rejection to even consider showering. 

His family had been so scared. So certain that Ian had inherited Monica's sickness. That dreaded diagnosis. Bipolar disorder. Ian was adamant that wasn't the case, he was just SAD. Mourning a loss. It was normal, for fuck's sake. 

A month later, his family had had enough. Fiona had convinced him to go to the free clinic with her, just to make sure. Ian begrudgingly agreed, secretly scared of what the doctor might say. 

It had been good news, and bad. 

No, Ian wasn't bipolar. Not like his mother. No super high highs, no soul-crushing lows. 

No, Ian was just plain old depressed. Clinically so, if you believe the intern at South Side Medical. 

Clinically depressed, with anxiety to boot. 

All in all, Ian had been relieved. It was so much better than it could have been. One dose of Paxil a day and the occasional Klonopin is much better than a fist full of mood stabilizers and anti-psychotics. Ian got off easy, and he won't forget it. 

His diagnosis doesn't get in the way of him living his life. After he got his shit together, he finished school, went onto trade school. (Let's get real, college was never for Ian.) Now, Ian spends his days doing HVAC work. It's not glamorous, but it's union work. So he makes insane money, and works decent hours. 

He's worked for AJ's Cooling & Heating since he was nineteen. Five years of steady paychecks and moderately good mental health. It's more than he ever anticipated when he was a teenager, and he knows enough about life on the south side to be grateful for what he's got. 

He's still not supposed to drink on these meds, but it won't kill him like the other ones would have, so fuck it. 

He and his brother are supposed to be catching up tonight. They haven't seen each other in almost a month. Lip is long done school now, working in R&D at some tech company Ian's never heard of. Lip doesn't go to AA anymore, but he hasn't had a problem like he had in college since graduation. 

Looks like Ian's not the only one that dodged the 'bad Gallagher genes' bullet. 

He's also got a girlfriend now. Ellie is sweet and kind, but also a hard ass. She takes none of Lip's shit, and Ian thinks that's just what his brother needs. 

Ian isn't Freud or anything, but he's almost positive his brother's been looking for someone to put him in his place all his life. All that acting out...it all boils down to just needing to know someone cared enough to tell him to cut the shit.

Ellie did that. 

And now her and Lip were having a baby. 

Ian was incredibly happy for them. Even if their storybook romance put a glaring spotlight on the isolated loneliness of Ian's existence. 

"How's work?" Ian asks, steering the conversation back to his brother. He polished off his beer, waving to the bartender for another. It's Thursday night, which means Ian doesn't have to work until noon. Half days, thanks HVAC union. 

"Eh, you know. Lots of stupid interns that never wanna listen. So, I tell them the best way to do shit, they do it their own way, then come crying to me when the deadline's right around the corner, and then I have to clean up their messes before we lose the client."

Ian laughed, shaking his head. "So, same old same old, then." 

"Pretty much, yeah." Lip sighed, shooting his brother a little smirk. 

They sat in the bar for another hour, drinking steadily and chatting about mundane shit, like they always did. "So," Lip said, eyeing Ian with a mischievous look. "No one special in your life right now?" he smirked. "No one worth reporting?" 

Ian sighed, shaking his head. The bartender swung by with his new drink, and Ian started in on it immediately. He loves his brother, he really does, but god does the prying get old quick. "No one new." 

"Oh, come on." Lip laughed, shoving Ian playfully. "We both know you can't go a continuous week without at least getting your dick sucked." 

Ian chuckled, rolling his eyes. "Lip, there is a huge difference between a random dude blowing you at the bar, and actual relationship news to report." 

Lip opened his mouth to retort, but his voice was drowned out by that asshole two stools down. 

"Hear that, Eric?" the man said loudly. "Told you that ginger twat was a faggot." 

The man's companion sighed, running his hand down his face. "C'mon, Dave. That's enough." 

Ian and Lip both turned to face the man. Ian's blood was up. He was just drunk enough to be indignant about this mouthy prick. Usually, that kinda shit didn't bother him. You don't grow up gay on the south side without developing a thick skin. 

But this guy's been harassing him since he walked through the door. Two hours of this bullshit, and Ian's had enough. He was up and out of his seat so fast, the bar stool went crashing to the floor. Lip jumped up too, ready to restrain his brother. 

Ian ignored him, walking over to the homophobic asshole and getting right in his face. This Dave person stood too, as well as his friend. 

The homophobe sized Ian up, a shitty little grin on his lips. "What?" he goaded. "Think your fairy ass could take a real man in a fight? Or are you just trying to get on toppa me?" the dude crossed his arms over his chest, chuckling. 

That was his first mistake. 

If you're gonna start shit with a Gallagher, you should keep your hands up. 

Ian smirked at the dickbag, and swung. His fist connected with the guy's jaw, splitting Ian's knuckles and bloodying the dude's lip.

This Dave douchenozzle stumbled, spitting blood on the floor before righting himself and plowing his fist into Ian's gut. 

It was a blur from there. Lip pointedly did not jump in. Neither did Dave the Homophobe's friend. Ian tackled the man to the ground and they rolled around on the sticky hardwood trading blows. Ian lost track of time, his brain going off line as the only thought in his head was 'shut this fuckhead's mouth. Fuck him up.' 

"That's it." the bartender's voice traveled over the din in Ian's head. "I'm calling the fucking cops." 

The words barely registered with Ian. Too drunk and too angry to stop now. He grappled with the man, landing punches on the homophobic prick until he could hear sirens in the distance. 

"Fucking wonderful." Lip groaned, finally wrapping his brother in his arms and hauling him upright. "Good going, Ian." 

Dave the Homophobe stood on wobbly legs, spitting more blood onto the floor. He looked like he got hit by a bus, and a feral pride bloomed in Ian's chest. Along with a steady ache from a well-placed punch to his ribs. 

"Nobody move." The bartender said, pulling a taser from behind the bar. "The cops are coming." 

The words finally pierced the buzzing in Ian's brain, and the gravity of the situation hit him like a ton of bricks. He swayed drunkenly, pinching his eyes shut. 

He fucked up. 

Ian put his hands up, sighing. 

This was not how he wanted this night to go. 

***

"So, Mick, how did it go down at the school the other day? That meeting with Yevvy's teacher?" Martinez asks, hitting the turn signal and pulling into the drive through. 

"Eh." Mickey replied, gazing out the window of the patrol car. The city looked shitty in the dull streetlights. Drab and dirty, no moon or stars in sight. Then again, the city always looked shitty to Mickey. "Fuck that guy, seriously." 

Martinez laughed. "You say that every time you get hauled in for one of these meetings. You can't blame the teacher every time your kid gets in trouble." 

Mickey just huffed. Andrea Martinez has been his partner since he joined Chicago PD. She was one of his best friends, but never took any of his shit. 

That's probably the reason Mickey likes her so much. 

"Drea, seriously, it wasn't Yev's fault this time." 

"You are so not gonna blame this shit on your Milkovich genes. You know that don't fly with me." 

Mickey chuckled, pulling out his wallet to pay for his coffee. Andrea slapped his hand. "This one's on me." she said. "Tell me about this fight, I'll tell you if you can blame your brawler DNA on it." 

"Drea, it's not like Yevvy fights for the fuck of it, like I did back when I was his age." 

"You were starting fist fights when you were eight?" Andrea balked. 

"Drea, I was already carrying a knife when I was eight." Mickey replied, rolling his eyes. "Not the point, anyway. What I'm saying is, when I was a kid, I fought because I felt like I had something to prove. That I was the toughest motherfucker out there. That nobody fucks with the Milkovichs. My old man ingrained that shit into our heads before we learned out ABC's. Someone calls you a name, you punch 'em. Someone punches you, you fucking stab 'em. Add to that toxic shit the fact that I was a little queer, with something to prove and something to hide? All I ever did was fight. Any reason, no reason, didn't matter. Yevvy's not like that." 

The little drive through window opened and a bored looking teenager passed them their drinks. Mickey took a huge sip of his iced coffee. These night shifts were killing him. Not even midnight and he's already yawning. 

"What's he like, then?" Andrea asks, pulling into the parking lot and turning up their radio. 

"He's....he's like this little vigilante." Mickey laughed, his face breaking out into a huge smile. 

So he's a proud father, fuck you. 

"He gets into these fights standing up to the bullies in the schoolyard." Mickey elaborated. "That time he had to stay late for a week last month, he was defending a girl with a stutter." 

"Awe, you got yourself a little hero." Andrea cooed. Mickey chuckled. "So what was his good deed this time? It had to be pretty serious if they sent him home." 

Mickey sighed, nodding. "Some kid in his class was picking on a first grader. Calling him a faggot. Yevvy told him to shut his fat yap." Mickey smiled, thinking of his little spitfire of a son. "Said, and I quote 'Better to be gay than a total dick.' Before you ask, I have no idea where he learned that word." Mickey smirked at Andrea's raised eyebrows. "When the kid didn't stop, Yev pushed him down. Didn't even hit him, just knocked him over." 

Andrea laughed. "I love how the fact that he only committed a *minor* assault is some kind of win here." 

"Milkovich." Mickey said, like that was explanation enough. 

If you had told Mickey when he was sixteen that he'd one day be a Chicago police officer, he would have laughed in your face, then kicked your ass. 

It's not a life he'd have ever seen for himself, growing up. 

Well, he never saw himself being a father either. That shit sure as fuck took him by surprise. 

When Mickey was a kid, he had no illusions of what his life was going to be like. He knew he'd be a loser, stuck under his father's thumb forever. Pulling low level scams and committing felonies until he either got shot or sent upstate to do real time. He had no plans for a better life. No dreams for the future. 

He was born a fuck up, and he was going to die a fuck up. 

Of course, that's not how it turned out at all. 

Mickey's life changed course on a Wednesday. Just like any other Wednesday. He had skipped school. It wasn't uncommon for him to skip whole weeks of school back then. At sixteen years old, he was pretty much raising himself. His mother was long dead, his father barely ever home. Not that Mickey minded his absence at all. When Terry was around, he alternated between shooting meth and beating Mickey's ass. Mickey's brothers were all gone by then. Doing their own stints in jail or wasting away in some shooting gallery down on Haltsead Street. His sister, the only one of the lot he could stand, went to live with her grandparents on her mother's side when her mom just kinda...fell off the face of the earth. 

No one knows where Mandy's mom went, but Mickey has his suspicions. Just like he has his suspicions about his own mother's 'fatal fall down a flight of stairs.' - but suspicions don't hold up in court, so that's that. 

So, with Mandy up on the west side, Iggy shooting crank in a gutter somewhere, and Colin cooling his heels down at Beckman, Mickey was on his own most of the time. 

So it wasn't abnormal at all for Mickey to be all alone on that fateful Wednesday afternoon. 

Well, almost alone. He'd been entertaining a...guest when his whole life got turned upside down. 

He'd been lounging on the sofa, idly playing his Playstation while Clint Masters sucked his dick at a leisurely pace. They hadn't been in any rush, had the whole day to themselves. At that point they'd already fucked once and were just waiting for their dicks to go back online for round two. 

Clint was just some neighborhood kid, nice enough, not all that annoying. He didn't talk all that much, and never demanded a god damn thing from Mickey, except an orgasm once in a while. 

It was a pretty sweet arrangement for a sixteen year old closet case. 

Mickey should've known it was all gonna blow up in his face. 

At the exact moment Mickey's dick started to harden in Clint's mouth, the door swung open, and there was Terry Fucking Milkovich in all his menacing glory. 

Oh god, did Mickey get his ass beat that day. Clint was lucky, Terry was so preoccupied kicking the everloving shit out of his youngest son, the kid just slipped out the open front door and disappeared like he'd never been there. 

Mickey wasn't as fortunate. 

It felt like it had gone on for hours. Mickey remembers inhaling his own blood, being so afraid he was going to drown in the hot red mess. His eyes were swollen shut, so he couldn't even see to defend himself from the blows. He could feel bones breaking, skin tearing, teeth shattering. 

He was certain he was going to die there, curled up in the fetal position on their disgusting shag carpeting, with nothing but the sound of his own wet whimpering and his father's homophobic vitriol to usher him out of the land of the living. 

But then, something truly odd happened. 

The police showed up. To his house. To save his life. 

It's still the only time Mickey can recall anyone in his neighborhood breaking the unwritten code and calling the cops. Mickey still doesn't know who his savior was, but his money's on old Mrs. Wellington next door. She never liked Terry, and Mickey is certain he'd seen her eyeing his bruised face and black eyes with compassion and pity more than once. 

Not that it matters, in the end. Whoever it was saved Mickey's life. 

After that, things kinda snowballed. Terry got convicted of attempted murder, with the added hate crime charge. (call me a faggot again, Dad.) The stupid prick got ten years, no parole, no good time. That fact still tickles Mickey pink, all these years later. 

Once Mickey got released from the hospital, he figured he'd end up in foster care or a group home. Wherever the state sends unwanted juvenile delinquents in between jail stays. 

Imagine his surprise when his Uncle Ronnie showed up at the hospital to pick him up. 

Uncle Ronnie is the ONLY Milkovich in the history of the world to ever go legit. (Well, besides Mickey, now.) He owns a successful construction company, has a huge house right in the middle of Ukrainian Village. His wife Tala is a wonderful woman, straight off the boat from the old country. They have one son, Alexi, who was already off to college when Mickey got out of the hospital. 

Uncle Ronnie had a proposal for Mickey that day. Live with him and Tala, for as long as he wanted, no questions asked, no payment. Just family helping family. 

The only catch: testify against Terry when the trial came up, and finish school. 

It should've been a no-brainer, but it took Mickey quite a while to wrap his head around the snitching part. That's just not something you did, where he came from. 

But....this was Terry, and if anyone deserved to get ratted on, it was that weeping pus wound of a man. 

So Mickey took Unlce Ronnie's deal. And he never looked back. 

All of this was going on around the time of Terry's final trail. Mickey had felt like he was adrift, so much going on, so much chaos and uncertainty in his life. Focusing on putting his father away for good helped him stay focused. 

Ironically enough, it was Terry's trial that put Mickey on the path of law enforcement to begin with. He'd been involved in the case from the get go. Talking with detectives and the DA. He found himself showing up at the police station in his free time, just to talk more about his father's long, illustrious life of crime. Most of it was irrelevant to the trial, but it was a weight of Mickey's shoulders, to tell someone. 

To snitch, as they say...

Surprisingly enough, he didn't spontaneously combust once he started talking. 

The lead detective on the case, Sargent Williams, kind of took Mickey under his wing during the trial prep. Got him hooked up with a psychiatrist, and a lawyer of his own, to protect him during the trail. At first, Mickey was wary. Therapy wasn't for him, and he didn't feel comfortable running his mouth to some psych student a year younger than Colin. But he did it to ensure his testimony would hold up in court. The fact that it helped him sort his own shit out was an unexpected benefit. 

Sargent Williams was there, every step of the way. Pretrial, testimony, deliberations, and conviction. Mickey didn't have to face any of that shit on his own, and he'd never felt so supported in his entire life. 

Aside from Uncle Ronnie, no one had ever looked out for Mickey like that. No one had ever shown an interest in him, made him feel like he was worth something more than his fists. 

Mickey hadn't noticed it at the time, but the more time he spent hanging around the police station, the less time he spent committing crime. It was such a slow, natural progression, Mickey didn't even notice it until Iggy brought it up. His older brother gave him endless shit for not wanting to tag along on a B&E he was planning. Mickey told him to get fucked, and went right back to Uncle Ronnie's. He'd rather spend his time playing Xbox and reading comics than pulling guns on elderly shop clerks.

After Terry got locked up, Mickey kept going back to the police station. Sarg thought it was hilarious, a little Milkovich brawler haunting the halls of the Chicago PD. 

About two months of that shit, and the Captain got sick of it. Pulled Mickey out of the yard, where he'd been playing with Max, Sarg's K-9 partner. Mickey had followed Captain Low to his office, bitterly certain he was being kicked out of the station for good. 

But Captain Low had surprised Mickey. 

He'd asked him if he ever went back to high school. When Mickey told him he had, and was getting ready to graduate soon, Captain Low suggested Mickey join the police academy upon acquiring his diploma. 

Mickey had laughed it off at the time. 

A Milkovich? A cop? Get the fuck out. 

But as he walked to the El that night, the thought took root in his head. He couldn't shake it. Not after a week. Not after a month. 

Right before graduation, he brought it up to Uncle Ronnie and Auntie Tala. They had been supportive and excited, unsurprisingly. 

Mickey had waffled for a few more months. It took a lot more trips to the station, a few more conversation with Sarg for him to take the plunge. 

He aced his exams, got a spot at the 13th Precinct on the west side of Chicago, and never looked back. Mickey had been worried that it would be impossible to shed his criminal skin, to become someone so opposite of who he was raised to be. 

He shocked himself, and everyone in his life by taking to policing like a fish to water. He had a knack for it. Knew how criminals thought. Knew what to say to get them to comply. He was compassionate when it was warranted, and a tough bastard when called for. 

He found something he was good at. He found something that made a difference. He was making a life for himself and his son, and not breaking the law or any bones to do it. 

"Yo, Milkovich." Martinez was waving her hand in front of his face. 

Shit, he must've spaced out for a minute there. 

"Huh? What?" he replied sheepishly. Fuck, tripping down memory lane isn't good on the clock. 

"I asked you how it's going with your ex." Martinez said, sipping her iced mocha. "I know you were having a hard time a while back. We haven't been partnered up in a minute, so I'm outta the loop." 

Mickey laughed. Yeah, Drea's been patrolling with Erickson the past few months, while Mickey's been on god damn bike patrol. (fuck that shit) So she was indeed out of the loop. 

"Svet's Svet." Mickey replied, grimacing at the thought of his ex girlfriend. Svetlana was a lot of things. A good mother, a hard worker, a bad ass bitch. 

But she had been a terrible girlfriend. If it weren't for Yevgeny, Mickey would regret the whole relationship. 

It had started out shitty, and gone progressively downhill from there. Mickey had met Svetlana at a bachelor party for one of his cousin's friends. The place had been crawling with Russian strippers, and Mickey, still not quite ready to admit he was actually gay, had taken Svetlana home. 

It was one night of honestly mediocre sex. He had not planned on ever seeing her again. 

Imagine his surprise when she showed up on his doorstep two months later. Just after he got his badge, just after he had his first fitting for his uniform. Svetlana shows up and tells him she's pregnant. It's his. And she's keeping it. 

Talk about life's little surprises. 

Mickey had tried. Tried to play it straight, be a 'real man' as his father would say. But his heart was never in it. And it became clear pretty quickly that there was nothing between he and Svetlana. Mickey was still trying to hide his true self, and Svetlana was looking to marry herself into a green card. 

They broke things off well before she gave birth. Svetlana moving onto a Ukrainian baker who owned a little shop in the Village, and Mickey finally admitting to himself that no woman would ever do it for him. 

Svetlana is the first person Mickey actually came out to. 

She had rolled her eyes, smirking. 'I am not idiot, Mikhalio. You do not like me, you must not like women at all.' 

Smart mouth bitch. 

Not that Mickey regrets it. Yevgeny is an amazing little dude. And the past eight years of Mickey's life have been better than the previous seventeen combined. Svetlana is a hard person to like, but she is raising his son right. She left stripping and now works as a receptionist at some Russian travel agency. She's still fucking Uli the baker, engaged to be married. 

American dream, as she's always saying. 

But....she lets Mickey see his son all the time. Two weeks every summer, every other weekend. Alternating holidays and birthdays. It's not a perfect set up, but it's light years beyond what either of them had growing up. 

Yevgeny is healthy, safe and happy. What more could Mickey want?

"The wedding still happening?" Drea once again pulled Mickey out of his revelry. Mickey chuckled, nodding. 

"Yeah, Uli is for sure marrying her. Tell you what, better that crazy fucking Russian than me." 

Drea laughed, nodding along. "Yeah, it would be a waste for your fine gay ass to marry a chick. You deserve a big, beefy service top that can keep you in line and keep you satisfied." 

"Drea, don't you ever say 'big beefy service top' again. Or I'm putting in a request for a new partner." 

"You wouldn't dare." Drea laughed. "No one else on the force would put up with your maudlin ass." 

Mickey glared at her. "Don't think for a second I don't know what that word means, you cantankerous bitch." 

Drea laughed out loud, turning toward Mickey to continue to tease him, when the radio crackled, breaking the moment. 

"Delta six, 10-10 in progress." Laurie, the dispatcher's calm, dispassionate voice buzzed over the radio. 

Drea sighed, rolling her eyes at Mickey before picking up the radio. It was Thursday night, not a big night for fist fights, but any night in Chicago is a good night for a brawl. "Delta six, 10-10, come back." Drea replied as Mickey dropped his coffee in the cup holder and prepared to speed off. 

"Fight in progress down at McGill's on Martins Boulevard. Two suspects engaged, no weapons. Proceed with caution." Laurie replied, her boredom evident over the radio waves. Mickey sighed. He hates bar fights. 

Bunch of drunk idiots in a booze-soaked dick measuring contest. 

He loves his job, but sometimes it just sucks. 

"10-4." Drea responded, starting the Charger and whipping it into gear. "Delta six, responding." 

"10-4, Delta six." Cassie replied. "Confirmed." 

"Confirmed." Drea repeated, and they were off. 

***

If this was Ian two years ago, he wouldn't even be in this predicament right now. Not because he wouldn't have punched that massive sack of assholes. No, because he would have run, instead of sitting on the curb outside the bar. The jerk off bartender was looming over the four men, taser still in hand, like he was some kind of deranged vigilante, and no one was going to escape his personal brand of justice. 

This is the last thing Ian needs tonight. He's been doing so well, and he's too drunk to deal with the cops right now. He's going to make shit worse, he knows he is. 

But he's just drunk enough to not give a shit. At the moment, he just wants to burn his whole life to the ground. Fuck it. He's been due for a meltdown for a while now. 

His brother is sitting next to him, head in his hands. Ian feels bad, dragging Lip into this shit. But, honestly, what was he supposed to do? Just let that prick call him a fairy and a faggot all night, just not do anything? 

No fucking way. Ian's done being a punching bag. He's done being a pussy. He's never going to let anyone walk all over him ever again. Not even if he has to spend the night in jail. He's in the right, he knows he is.

Now, whether or not the cops are going to agree with him is another story...

The cruiser pulls up and Ian hides his bruised face in his knees. Pulling his legs up to his chest, curling in on himself where he sits on the curb. He can hear the car pull up. He hears the engine shut off. He hears two doors open. Two sets of footsteps. 

"Okay boys." A woman's voice. "What seems to be the problem tonight?" 

Ian giggles. Can't help it. This situation is so ridiculous, and he's still feeling pretty good. Fuck Homophobic Prick, as Ian's taken to calling his adversary in his head. Fuck him. Ian doesn't care what happens right now. He can spend a night in the drunk tank. AJ will probably think it's funny when Ian tells him Monday. 

His boss has spent plenty of nights sleeping off a bender as a guest of the city. 

"This guy just swung on me." Homophobic Prick says, voice laced with venom. 

Ian finally looks up, glaring at his enemy. "Fuck you, asshole, you started it." 

Ian can hear Lip sigh, but he doesn't give a fuck. Ian knows he's in the right, god damn it. 

"Eh, enough." a new voice says. "Just give us the fucking facts, please. Who swung on who, and for what reason?" 

Ian looks over to see where this new, deep voice is coming from. Ian gulps, doing a comical double take when his eyes land on the massive hunk of hot cop a mere two feet away. 

Oh, what the fuck? Like, what the actual fuck is happening right now? 

This guy is just....oh no. He's perfect. He's shorter than Ian, but Ian likes that. A lot. He's got jet black hair and the bluest eyes Ian's ever seen in his natural life. He's also fucking jacked, in the way only long hours in the gym can make you. Thick, muscled arms, powerful thighs, broad chest. The cop is facing Ian, but Ian's is praying to all the gay gods that he turns around, just for a second, so Ian can get a look at his ass.  
It's glorious, Ian can already tell. A body like that comes with a glorious ass. Anything else would be sacrilege. 

Ian is drawn out of his embarrassing gawking by Homophobic Prick's voice. "I was just sitting there, and he jumped up and decked me." 

"Oh fuck you, man." Ian shot back. "You were calling me a faggot and a god damn ass digger. You made a shit ton of rude comments. Then...I corrected you." 

Ian swears he heard Hot Cop chuckle at that. 

"Alright, alright." Lady Cop says. She turns to the bartender, the only neutral party in the bunch. "What did you see?" 

And the bartender is honest. Tells Hot Cop and Lady Cop about Homophobic Prick heckling Ian, calling him names for over an hour. Inciting the fight like the douchebag he is. But...he also tells them about Ian taking the first swing. 

"Alright." Hot Cop says, running his index finger over his top lip. Ian is entranced, greedily soaking in the sight of the cop's fingerless gloves moving along his plush mouth. "Now you." he points to Homophobic Prick. "One more time from the top, buddy. And give us the truth." Hot Cop glares at the guy and Ian's heart does a little happy dance. 

Homophobic Prick rolls his eyes, earning himself another glare from both cops, and proceeds to spin his web of gay hating lies once more. Ian hears two new false details, and he can't help but think this guy is digging himself in a lot deeper when he watches the two police officers share a meaningful glance. 

Hope swells in Ian chest. Maybe he can still walk away from this unscathed. 

"Okay." Lady Cop says, turning to Ian. "We're gonna put you both in cuffs, then I want to hear the story from the beginning. This time from you, Red." 

Ian's heart sinks. Fuck. He felt like the dumbest idiot on the planet for pulling this shit. He should have known it wasn't going to be that easy. Right or not, he was going in. And this arrest was gonna fuck up his life. 

But just as he moved to stand, he saw Hot Cop eyeballing him. In that way. That way Ian's known since he was fifteen. That 'I want to eat you whole' way. 

Suddenly, Ian's not so bummed about going for a ride in the patrol car...

Ian and Homophobic Prick both stand. Lip stand with him, but the Prick's friend is off to the side, talking with Lady Cop. She nods, and the friend moves off to stand by the bar, still looking mortified. Ian supposes it makes sense, that guy had nothing to do with the fight.

Ian and his nemesis are standing on the curb, Lip a few feet away, wringing his hand nervously. 

Lady cop starts hooking up Homophobic Prick. 

That means...

That means Hot Cop is walking toward Ian, hands moving toward the handcuffs dangling from his belt. 

Oh god. This is not how this fantasy usually starts, in his head. 

***

Mickey's only been on scene for about a minute, and he already knows he's in trouble. 

Mickey's trying to keep it professional. 

He really is. 

But this ginger moron is making it hard. 

The guy is clearly hammered. Not uncommon for these bar fights. 

But from what Mickey can gather from the drunken ramblings of this guy, his brother, and the two other idiots involved in the fight, Ginger Hottie was peeved Dudebro Douche called him a faggot. 

Mickey is already ready to burn shit to the ground. 

That's unsettling. 

After Dudebro Douche and the good Samaritan give their accounts of the fight, it's Ginger Hottie's turn. But Drea wants to cuff them up first. The red head looks horrified, hands up in a placating gesture. 

"Wait." he pleads. 

Mickey shouldn't, but he stops advancing. He stills his hand on his belt, fingers gliding over his cuffs, using the other to make a little 'go on' motion, eyebrows raised to his hairline. 

This should be good. 

"Like I said, I'm gay." Ginger Hottie says, swaying a little. Drea smirks, but schools her face quickly. 

Mickey is a stone statue. 

"And I didn't grow up on the south side, standing up for myself all those years, to come over here to the west side and take that same shit from some neanderthal asshole that still thinks being gay is some kind of personality defect. I won't do it. And I'll fight any fucker that thinks he can look down on me for liking dick. So, yeah, whatever, I threw the first punch. But that jerkoff was asking for it." The red head glared at Dudebro Douche, whole scowled back, arms bulging in the cuffs like he wants to rip the red head's face off. 

Ginger Hottie just smirks at him, eyes shining. 

Mickey's knees almost give out. He's so god damn turned on right now. 

He's struck so fast, it almost knocks him over. This drunken, redheaded asshole is preaching on his big gay soapbox, and Mickey's dick is for sure feeling it. 

Jesus, please, no. Not now. Not here. 

Drea saves him. Again. As usual. 

"Thank you for that impassioned speech, Harvey Milk." Drea sighs. "But I'm still gonna have to take you and you brawler buddy in for disorderly conduct." 

"Awe, what the fuck." Dudebro Douche whines, like a little girl. He turns to his friend, who's standing off to the side, looking mortified. "Eric, can you come down and bail me out?" 

The other guy shrugs, looking more irritated by the moment. "Sure, Dave, whatever. But I just wanna say, if you'd listened to me, none of this shit would've even happened." the guy starts walking toward the parking lot in the back. He turns to Andrea at the last minute. "Precinct 13?" he asks. When she nods, he nods back and disappears around the building. 

"Alright, c'mon. Stand up." Andrea says, grabbing Dudebro by the arm. Mickey turns to Hot Ginger, but the guy is already standing, albeit unsteadily. Mickey grips him gently under one arm. 

"Easy there." he murmurs, trying to keep the warmth out of his voice. He doesn't want to cuff this guy up, not at all. He doesn't want to take him in. But it's standard procedure for these 10-10 calls. 

Assault in progress. Both parties involved. Both parties need to go in. 

Andrea is already cuffing up the homophobic asshole. It falls to Mickey to take in the sexy GAY motherfucker defending the honor of all the queers in Chicago. 

Oh, the irony. 

"C'mon, guy." Mickey murmurs quietly, turning the ginger Adonis around gently. "Hands behind your back. I'm sure you know the drill." he pulls his cuffs from his belt, swinging them open, ready. "What's your name?" 

"Ian." the guy breathes through a laugh. "Ian Gallagher." 

"Well, Ian Gallagher, you're under arrest for disorderly conduct." Mickey replies, a pit forming in his stomach. 

He doesn't want to arrest this guy. He didn't do anything Mickey wouldn't have done. 

But the law doesn't see it that way, and Mickey's the long arm of the law now. 

"You don't have to do this." Ian insists, panic building in his booze addled brain. "Please." he spins out of Mickey's grip, surprisingly graceful for how drunk he is. He takes a step back, but the Mickey just follows him, arms out, stance tense.

Mickey doesn't wanna tackle the guy, but he'll do what he has to to make a safe arrest. 

Ian keeps backing up, but Mickey's hand flies out, his gloved hand wrapping tightly around Ian's slender wrist. A little thrill shoots up Mickey's spine at the contact. 

God damn it. 

"Please, don't." Ian says, voice low. He sounds utterly broken. 

"C'mon, Gallagher." Mickey says quietly, giving Ian a reassuring smile. "You don't wanna add resisting arrest to these charges, do you, kid?" Mickey smirks, trying to bring back the easy levity of their earlier words. "This doesn't have to be a big deal. You'll see that in the morning." 

Ian nods, relenting. What's he gonna do, punch this sexy asshole and make a break for it? He sighs loudly, giving his arresting officer a small, genuine smile of his own. This guy just went out of his way to make Ian feel better. The COP who's getting ready to cuff him is being nice to him. Looking at him like he's not a drunk moron. 

Looking at him like...

Oh. 

Ian hangs his head as Mickey slips the cuffs on him, tightening them. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you...." Mickey goes through Miranda on autopilot. It's more for the suspect than it is for him, anyway. He turns Ian around once he's done cuffing him, so he can read him his rights face-to-face. When he's done, Ian is just staring at him, an odd smile on his lips. 

"Y'know...." Ian says, swaying drunkenly into Mickey. Their hips touch and Mickey almost jumps out of his skin. "It's kinda kinky, how you put these cuffs on me. My safe word is Death Star, just in case." the guy is grinning like a loon, swaying his body into Mickey's as Mickey is just trying to do his damn job. He spins Gallagher around again, starts frog marching him toward the cruiser. 

"The fuck is wrong with you?" Mickey hisses, his mouth waaay to close to the suspect's ear. "I'm working here. I don't wanna know jack shit about your god damn safe word." 

"You sure?" Gallagher replies, smirk evident in his tone. All his anxiety is gone now. All his worries about his arrest and his job just fly out the window as he watches this sexy ass cop blush tomato red. 

Goddamn. Ian wants to know how far down that blush spreads. 

"Enough." Mickey spits, his hands wrenching the cuffs painfully. Gallagher cries out a little, but it doesn't actually sound like pain. 

God damn it. 

"I'm working here, man. Have pity." Mickey whispers, his lips grazing the Gallagher perp's earlobes. The guy chokes out a quiet moan before tossing back a...

"Yes, officer." 

Mickey almost comes in his pants. 

Martinez laughs out loud, shaking her head. Mickey is blushing, he can feel it. He ignores the sexy drunkard, gently pushing him into the backseat of the cruiser. A second car has pulled up to take the other guy in. Martinez gives the other two cops the rundown as Mickey shuts his suspect up in the back seat of his own cruiser. As he moves around to get back in the passenger seat, Gallagher's brother clears his throat. 

Mickey turns to him, hands on his hips. 

"So, uh. I heard your partner say thirteenth precinct? On Jackson Boulevard?" the guy isn't nearly as drunk as his brother, but he looks worn out and nervous. Mickey feels a little well of pity swell up inside him. 

"Yeah, but he won't be released until morning." Mickey replied, resting his hand on the open car door. "You know that, right?" 

Philip Gallagher nods, running his fingers through his wild hair. Mickey feels for him, he's sure this isn't the evening the set of brothers had planned. 

But sometimes, you just gotta stand up for yourself. Mickey gets that. 

Too bad he has to be the bad guy in this situation. Well, the other bad guy. At least he's not the homophobic asshole this time. 

Growth, and all that. 

"He'll probably be ready to be picked up around nine in the morning." Mickey says, trying to be as helpful as possible. "You can pick him up then, he'll have a summons for a court date. It's not a big deal, forty dollar bail, and he'll be free to go. We're just gonna hold him for the night, okay?" 

"Yeah, okay." Philip replies, nodding. He takes a step back. "I'll try to make it, but I have a birthing class with my fiance tomorrow. Can you just make sure he remembers that?" 

"Will do." Mickey nods, finally taking his seat. Drea was already in the drivers seat, and once Mickey shut his door, they started off toward the precinct. 

"Y'know." Gallagher slurs from the back seat. "This isn't how this particular fantasy ends, most of the time." 

Mickey chuckles, couldn't help himself. Andrea was much less impressed. 

"Do yourself a favor, stud." she replies sharply. "Keep your mouth shut." 

"I have the right to remain silent." Gallagher replies, grinning through the little hole in the partition that separated them. 

"You do." Mickey laughed. "I suggest you employ that right now, buddy." 

Gallagher huffed, but didn't speak again. Mickey kinda misses the sound of his voice. The silence stretches on, the only sound the soft hum of the tires on the pavement, and the muted sounds of the city at night. 

The whole way back to the precinct, all Mickey can think about are his cuffs, wrapped securely around Ian Gallagher's slender wrists. And Ian's husky voice whispers 'yes, officer' into the small space between their mouths. 

God damn it. 

Mickey's got it bad. For the drunk ginger idiot cooling his heels in the back of his patrol car. 

Classy, Mick.

***

Ian groans, pinching his eyes shut. His head is pounding, and his whole body is sore in that way that only comes after a good fight. He rolls over, trying to get comfortable, and almost falls off the bed. 

Shit. 

This isn't his bed. 

It's a shitty metal cot. 

He peels his crusty eyes open, and the first thing he sees is the concrete ceiling of a holding cell. 

"Oh, fuck." Ian groaned, his antics the previous evening filtering back to his brain slowly. The chain of events is a bit fuzzy, convoluted due to all the booze he'd consumed, but the basic facts are there. 

He got into a fight. The cops came. He got taken in. 

One of the cops was ridiculously hot. And Ian made a total and utter fool of himself, hitting on the poor guy. 

Jesus. Oh god. What the hell? 

Ian is in the middle of cursing himself out and swearing off booze forever when the cell door opens. He glances up, hoping / not hoping to see the sexy cop from last night. 

He's mildly relieved and really disappointed to find it's not him at all. It's another no-name cop, standing there with a bored, slightly irritated look on his face. 

"C'mon, up." the guys says, waving Ian on. "Time to go." 

"Did I get bailed out?" Ian asks, running his fingers through his hair. He needs a shower. 

"Yeah, but she didn't stick around." the cop replies. "Whoever it was, she was pretty pissed. So I'm guessing your on your own getting home." 

"She?" Ian repeats, wracking his brain for who could have bailed him out.

"Yeah." the cop replied, arms crossed over his chest. "Younger girl, ginger, like you." 

"Debbie." Ian groaned. Did Lip have to tell the whole family about his drunken fisticuffs? He'll never hear the end of it now. 

"Yeah, whoever that is." the cop replies, clearly irritated at this point. "C'mon, up. I got other prisoners to deal with." 

Ian nodded, moving slowly to sit up. His stomach lurches and his head spins, but he doesn't puke as he stands on unsteady legs. 

Small victories. 

Ian follows the unnamed cop out of the holding cell and down a long hallway. They come to the front desk, where another nameless, bored-looking cop hands Ian his personal effects. 

Wallet, phone, condom. (always be prepared) Some loose change, business cards from work. 

Ian fills his pockets and signs the paperwork the cop puts in front of him. Agrees to the terms of his release, agrees to appear in court at a later date. 

Once he's signed his life away, the cop hands him another, smaller piece of paper, with his upcoming court date on it. A month away, he can work with that. 

"Is this all?" Ian asks, sliding the clipboard back toward the officer. 

"Yep. You're good to go." she replies. "Try to stay outta trouble between now and the fifteenth, huh?" 

Ian gives the cop a strained smile. "Yeah, I can do that." 

She nods and he walks toward the front of the police station. He glances down at his phone as he wanders toward the exit. Not a single god damn bar. He'll need to go outside to get a signal so he can call Lip to pick him up. 

Fine. That's fine. He'll just go outside and call his brother. Lip will take him back to his apartment. He has to call work, he's clearly not going in today. AJ will understand, Ian never calls out, and it's only a half day anyway.

Ian is so lost in thought, glaring at his shoes as he makes his way out of the station, he doesn't notice he's not alone anymore. 

"Fancy meeting you here." 

Ian's head whips up, and he comes face to face with Hot Cop. 

Oh shit. 

"Uh, yeah." Ian replies, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. God, he probably looks like the hottest mess in the history of the world. He can smell the booze seeping out of his pores, and his clothes are rumpled and soaked with sweat. 

Embarrassment pools in Ian's stomach. Why? Why is this happening to him?

Mickey watches Ian Gallagher waffle for a minute. He feels for the guy. He had a pretty shitty night, and waking up in a holding cell just adds insult to all that injury. And here comes his arresting officer, popping up on him when he's two feet from freedom. 

But Mickey couldn't just go home. He'd spent the rest of his shift the previous evening replaying Gallagher's arrest in his head. Those few, insignificant moments between them. Mickey knows it's unorthodox, probably breaking some kind of rule. He'll look into it later, if he needs to. 

This may all just blow up in his face, and then it won't matter anyway. 

"Are you still working, Officer Milkovich?" Ian asks, eyeing Mickey. He's no longer dressed in his uniform. Instead, he's wearing a tight CPD t shirt and a pair of navy sweat pants that hug his ass and thighs in the most sinfully delicious way. He's also carrying a small gym bag with the CPD shield on it. 

"Nah." Mickey smiled, nervously running his fingers along his top lip. "I, uh, like to work out in the gym downstairs after a night shift. Can't just go home and go to bed. Too wound up after a night on the streets, y'know?" 

Ian nodded, even though he did not know. He had no idea what it was like to police the streets of a violent metropolis. 

"And you can call me Mickey, since you're not actively engaging in criminal activity at the moment." Mickey smirked. He watched a low grade blush spread along Ian's neck and smiled wider. How cute is that shit? 

"Mickey." Ian repeated, giving his arresting officer a shy smile. God, Ian is such an idiot. Is he flirting with the cop that broke up his bar fight? Seriously?

In the back of his mind, a small whisper. A memory he can't place. Officer Mickey Milkovich. Why does that name sound so familiar?

"You headed home?" Mickey asks, steeling himself as he takes a single step forward. There are about six inches between them now, but Mickey swears he can feel the heat radiating of Ian's body. 

Ian nodded slowly, feeling like he was having some kind of out of body experience. The way Mickey is looking at him sets his insides alight. He clears his throat, running his fingers through his hair. He feels shy, which is rare. But he's hungover, and memories from last night are still quazi-fresh in his mind. The combination is making him feel off-kilter. "I was gonna just call my brother to come get me." 

"The guy from last night?" Mickey replies, taking another small step forward. 

"Yeah. He doesn't live too far." Ian's not sure Lip will come at all. He could very well be pissed at Ian for making a scene last night. 

"Well..." Mickey says, nerves building in his gut. He's never done anything like this before. Not with someone he's arrested, at least. "My car's downstairs, in the garage. I...I was planning on grabbing some breakfast down at the Cast Iron Skillet. You ever been?" 

Ian's heart is pounding. His skin tingling. He knows he's blushing like a virgin, but can't do anything about that. 

Is Mickey Milkovich, aka Hot Cop honest to god asking him out? After he made such a spectacular fool of himself not even ten hours ago? 

What alternate reality did Ian wake up in today? 

"No." Ian shook his head. "I've never been. Is it good?" he sounds like an idiot, even to his own ears. He's usually much more confident with men. But after his antics at the bar, Ian feels like he's a mile behind the starting line on this one. 

Mickey took one final step forward, closing the last bit of distance between them. The scant space between their chests feels electrified. Mickey swears his skin is buzzing, aching for contact. Ian is a few inches taller than him, so Mickey has to crane his neck to look into his eyes. Mickey likes that, a lot. 

Ian is staring, mouth slightly open. God, this guy is so fucking gorgeous. It's unfair how hot he is. Ian probably looks like wet trash. He knows he stinks like whiskey. Irish god damn stereotype. 

But he can't focus on how shitty he feels, or how unattractive he must look. Not when this sexy motherfucker is grilling him like he wants to devour him whole. His skin is covered in goosebumps that have nothing to do with his lingering hangover. 

Mickey's hand comes up, and for the first time, Ian sees the black of some kind of tattoo on his knuckles. How did he miss that last night? Before he can get a glimpse at the ink, Mickey pats his cheek gently. "It's delicious." he murmurs, his eyes flitting all over Ian's face. 

It takes a moment for Ian to realize Mickey's talking about the diner food. 

"C'mon, Drunk and Disorderly." Mickey smirks, stepping away from Ian and toward the door. "Let me buy you some breakfast, soak up all that whiskey still swimming in your veins." 

Ian blushes, rolling his eyes, but he follows the sexy cop out of the precinct and into the Chicago streets. 

***

This is Mickey's favorite breakfast spots in the entire city. He's been coming to the Cast Iron Skillet since he passed his police exam. Drea brought him here to celebrate his first clean arrest. Some asshole wife beater. Mickey had wanted to throttle the asshole, but he maintained his composure and made a clean arrest. 

The guy ended up getting two years. 

Mickey had never been prouder of himself than the moment the wife came up to him at the courthouse. She looked like a different person. No bruises, and the shadow of terror was gone from her eyes. She had handed her baby to Andrea and hugged Mickey so hard, right there in the court room. 

After, Drea took him to the Cast Iron Skillet to celebrate. Now it's Mickey's go-to spot for post night shift breakfast. Best Eggs Benedict on the west side. Hell, best in the city, probably. 

"Hey, Officer Milkovich." Candy, his regular waitress saunters over to his usual table by the window. She's a nice girl, and a good server. But she's a shameless flirt, and Mickey kinda doesn't need that shit right now. "So good to see you again, hon." she winks at him, licking her lips. 

"Hey Candy." Mickey replies, valiantly succeeding in not rolling his eyes. Candy is a bit much, especially at seven in the morning. 

Ian clears his throat behind her and she spins comically fast, like she didn't even notice him sitting right across from Mickey. Coffee almost goes flying out of the pot in her hand, but she saves it at the last minute.

"Oh, hey." she gives Ian a small smile. "Sorry about that. Officer Milkovich usually dines alone." her tone is friendly, but Ian can tell she's pissed Mickey isn't by himself. 

Ian smirks, preening a little. Even hungover and looking a mess, Mickey wants to have breakfast with him. 

Take that, Candy. 

"It was a last minute thing." Ian says, shrugging. Candy forces another smile before turning back to Mickey. 

"The usual, hon?" she asks, laying on hand on the formica table top so she can lean over, her low-cut top giving Mickey an eyeful of her chest. 

Mickey does his best to smile. Candy isn't usually this flirty. Ian must be making her jealous. Mickey would just tell her he's queer, but it's really none of her business. 

"Yeah, thanks." he says, turning his coffee cup over so she can fill it. She does so and turns to Ian. "And you?" she asks, no longer smiling. Ian turns his cup over and she dutifully fills it for him. 

"Uh, just two eggs over easy, bacon, and wheat toast, please." Ian replies, eyeing the waitress warily. He's getting very standoffish vibes from her. She clearly thinks she has some kind of claim on Mickey, which is a bit ludicrous. 

"Sure." she says, jotting down his order and walking away. 

Ian glanced over at Mickey, who was already smiling at him. "That was..." 

"Sorry about that." Mickey shrugged. "She's usually really nice." 

"Yeah, well, she clearly thinks I'm trying to steal her man." Ian smirked, sipping his coffee. 

Mickey rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling. 

"I can't help it if she has a little crush." he said.

"You could tell her you like dick." Ian replied bluntly. "You do like dick, don't you?" 

Mickey was blushing, which was ridiculous. It's not like he's new to being a gay dude. There's just something about Ian. So cocky and sure of himself, when last night he was a drunken mess in the back of Mickey's patrol car. 

It's sexy as fuck. 

"I do." he grins, leaning in a little. He kicks his foot out under the table, curling his running shoe around Ian's bulky calf muscle. "I do like dick." 

Ian laughs. Jesus, he wasn't sure that was gonna work. He has no idea what he's doing. Mickey isn't anything like the guys he usually goes for. Ian's petrified he's going to say the wrong thing and ruin everything. But so far, being his ridiculous self seems to be working just fine. 

Ian's eyes slide over Mickey, greedily soaking up every last detail. He's fucking gorgeous. Dark hair framing that beautiful face. Pale skin, prominent muscles. Those eyes, jesus. 

Everyone always tells Ian he has gorgeous eyes. Sharp green orbs standing out in stark contrast to his pale face and fire red hair. 

But those people have clearly never met Mickey. His ice blue eyes are like a portal to another dimension. And Ian wants to jump in head first, never come back. 

His eyes trail down Mickey's wide chest, along his beefy biceps and come to rest on his delicate, dainty hands. 

How can a guy so jacked have such pretty hands? 

And...what the fuck is that? 

Fuck U Up.

Seriously? 

"Your hands." Ian says, like a moron. His own hand moves of it's own volition, grabbing Mickey's fingers to get a better look.

Yeah, it really says 'Fuck U Up' on Mickey's knuckles. 

What in the hell? 

"Uh, yeah." Mickey replies quietly, gently extricating his hand from Ian's. "I was young and dumb. Hence the fingerless gloves when I'm on the job." 

Mickey is embarrassed. Sometimes he thinks he should fork over the crazy money to get that shit removed. He gets endless bullshit from his fellow officers for his youthful transgression. 

And now Ian is going to see him as a guided up street rat too..

"Shit, Mickey." Ian sighs, reaching for his hand again. He traces his pointer finger over the faded lettering. "That has to be the sexiest, most south side shit I've ever seen." his eyes shoot up, mischievous and devious. Mickey gulps, a small smile splitting his lips. 

"Yeah?" Mickey asks, still uncertain. Insecure.

"Fuck yeah." Ian replies, licking his lips. He drags Mickey's hand to his mouth, making a show of kissing each and every letter adorning Mickey's fingers. It's a bold move on Ian's part, but Mickey is giving off really receptive vibes, and Ian isn't going to let this opportunity pass him by. 

Mickey shudders, electricity shooting up his spine. No one's ever done anything like that to him before. 

There food arrives not long after, and they tuck in greedily. Both men starving after a long night. 

They chat aimlessly about life. Mickey is surprised to discover they grew up really close to each other, before Mickey moved in with Uncle Ronnie.

"I know you." Ian said, finally putting the pieces together. "You used to live on Trumball." 

Mickey grimaced, nodding. God damn it. It's never a good thing when people remember him from S. Trumball Street. "Uh, yeah. I moved to the west side to live with my uncle and his family after my dad went to jail for the last time." 

Ian nodded, his smile slipping from his lips. He sure as shit remembers where he knows Mickey from now. The Milkovich family had been notorious in his neighborhood. Thugs and criminals, they were the worst of the worst, even on the south side. To be avoided at all costs. Ian remembers the small handful of interactions he had with the Milkovich children, before he stopped seeing them around all together. "We used to play little league together. And...and your sister chased me all over the neighborhood, that summer before my freshman year in high school." 

Mickey balked, a shocked smile splitting his lips. There's no way in hell that scrawny little red head Mandy was in love with turned into this sexy fucker...

"You're one of those Gallaghers?" Mickey laughs, forkful of eggs forgotten in front of his open mouth. He stares at Ian for a moment, finally seeing that skinny little twerp inside this tall, gorgeous man. 

Damn, it really is him. Ian Gallagher from North Wallace is all grown up.

Ian gave Mickey a strained smile. Oh shit. 

"Um, yeah. That's us." this could ruin everything. No matter what criminal antics Mickey got up to when he was a kid, being a Gallagher was still a no-go for cops in Chicago. 

He just cock blocked himself, just by being himself. 

But Mickey surprised him again. He just laughed and shook his head. "I just picked up your old man for shoplifting over at the Save A Lot." 

Ian groans, pinching his eyes shut. "Of course you did." 

"Gotta hand it to Frank." Mickey chuckled, snapping a piece of bacon with his teeth. "He's very dedicated to his life of crime." 

"Y'know, I don't think my alcoholic asshole father is a first date topic." Ian sighs, pushing his eggs around on his plate. 

"So this is a date, then?" Mickey smirks, waving Candy back over for the check. 

"Well, I kinda thought it was?" Ian replies, a hot blush breaking out on his chest. Did he read this whole thing wrong? 

Mickey smirks, his skin tingling. This was good. This was very good. "Yeah, Ian. It's a date." 

Ian sighs, a warm feeling settling in his chest. 

"How am I doing?" Ian asks. He swallows his nerves, giving himself a little mental push as he reaches across the table and lays his hand over Mickey's. He drags his fingers over the faded lettering of Mickey's rude tattoos again. Ian can't get over how sexy they are. And truthful, too...

Mickey is for sure fucking him up. 

"You're doing great, Ian." Mickey smiled, flipping his hand over to interlace their fingers. "In fact, you got me thinking crazy shit." 

"Crazy like what?" 

"Crazy like I wanna take you home." Mickey replied bluntly. "Is that weird?" Mickey doesn't have a problem taking home one night stands from the bar, but Ian is a little different. 

First of all, Mickey just arrested him not ten hours earlier. 

And second, Mickey kinda wants to do more than just fuck him. 

That's an interesting new development. Wanting more than an orgasm. 

Ian, for his part, is quietly losing his mind. Mickey wants to take him home? After he arrested him for a bar brawl? While he still looks like a hurricane victim and a hobo had a baby? 

Ian never gets lucky like this. And if he hasn't fucked it up already with his shitty behavior, he's gonna take advantage of his good fortune while he's got it. 

"It's not weird at all." Ian replies, his voice dropping. "Please tell me you live close by." 

Mickey's smile lights up his whole face. "You bet your sweet ginger ass I do." 

Mickey stands, dropping a twenty on the table. Ian stands with him, and Mickey laces their fingers together and drags him out of the diner. "See ya, Candy." 

Ian lets Mickey lead him out of the diner, glancing over his shoulder to give Candy a smug grin. She's glaring daggers at him. Ian can't be bothered to care. 

Not when he's going home with the sexy cop, and Candy has to spend the rest of the morning slinging hash.

***

Mickey lives in a duplex on the very edge of the west side. It's a nice neighborhood. Ian is embarrassed to admit he's kinda shocked. 

He feels bad for imagining Mickey still living in a shithole like they grew up in. Ian himself has a nice condo on the south side. Why would Mickey still live like a gutter rat? 

They're ambling down West Lake Street, making their way toward Mickey's duplex when Ian stops short in front of a closed bar. 

"Is this for real?" He laughs, throwing a thumb at the sign over his shoulder. 

"What?" Mickey smiles. "The Bottom Lounge? Yeah, it's real. And no, it's not what you think, you big queer pervert." Mickey rolled his eyes, gazing fondly at Ian. "It's not a gay club, it's an underground music lounge. They make a mean boilermaker too." 

Ian chuckles, nodding. "What a waste, though." he decides. "That would be a killer name for a gay bar." 

"If it were a gay bar, it would be my kinda place for sure." Mickey waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Ian's heart dropped out of his ass. 

Did Mickey just insinuate that he bottoms? 

Christ on a cracker. 

"Is that so?" Ian murmured, proud at how he didn't squeak at all as he spoke. 

"Mhmm." Mickey hummed, shooting Ian a heated look, his eyes greedily raking over Ian's chest and abs. 

A hot shiver went straight down Ian's spine, warmth pooling in his groin. 

Fucking hell. 

Mickey just laughs again, giving Ian a devious smile as he grabs him by the wrist and continues to drag him up the street toward his house. 

"This is me." Mickey said, climbing onto the stoop of a well maintained duplex. Ian cast his eyes over the small, well-manicure front lawn. Some lilac bushes lining the first floor window, small wooden fence encircling the small plot of land. The building itself was red brick, with big white shutters on all the wide picture windows. 

Ian was impressed. 

Mickey lead him to the door and up the stairs to the second floor. He makes his way inside and sets his gym bag down in the front hallway. 

Ian follows closely behind Mickey, glancing around the apartment as they make their way to the living room. 

It's nice inside. Nicer than Ian's place, that's for sure. The living room and kitchen are one big open space, with three closed doors shooting off the room. The windows are huge, the walls a pale grey. The drywall is dotted with strange artwork. Dark shit. Skulls and Luna Moths. Black roses and abstract landscapes in muted grays and deep reds. 

There is smattering of family photos along the front hallway. Ian glances at them as he walks by, but doesn't linger. The last thing he wants to do is pry. He sees a picture of Mandy, the girl that had that crush on him in middle school, holding a little blond boy. They are both smiling, at some kind of carnival. Ian wonders idly if the kid is her son. 

Ian see pictures of Mickey in his police uniform. With the woman from last night, who must be his partner, as well as an older man. Mickey is smiling so bright, the older man's arm slung around his shoulder. Mickey looks young in the photo, and Ian thinks it must have been taken on the day of his graduation from the police academy. There are other pictures. Mickey with men his age, who might be his brothers. More of that young boy. 

Ian smiles at this small window into Mickey's private life before moving to follow Mickey further into the apartment. 

There is a half wall separating the kitchen from the living room. The top of the wall is lined with a small counter, bar stools dotted along the little overhang. On top of the counter is a small array of knickknacks. Ian chuckles quietly as his eyes take in the trinkets. Little crystal skulls and dangerous looking cacti. There's even a small live tarantula in a tiny glass globe, wandering around the mini terrarium, looking surprisingly menacing for such a small creature. 

It all fits Mickey's personality so well, Ian has to smile. 

There's a big flat screen on the far wall, and a black leather sectional taking up the center of the living room. 

"You can leave your shoes by the door. You want another coffee? I can Irish this one up for you, if that's your kinda thing." 

Ian hums, kicking his sneakers off and flopping down on the huge couch. God, it's comfortable. "Sounds good, thanks Mick." 

Mickey shivers involuntarily at the nickname. No one's called him that since high school. 

It sounds good, on Ian's lips. 

Mickey makes quick work of the coffee, splashing in a health dose of whiskey in each cup before offering one of the cups to Ian, who takes it with a nod of thanks. Mickey sits down next to him on the couch, close enough that their knees touch. Ian suppresses yet another shudder as a little thrill runs up his spine at the contact. 

They sip their coffees quietly for a moment, both men content with the silence. The dark, rich liquid slides down Mickey's throat, followed by the sharp bite of the whiskey. That's the good shit. Candy's diner coffee has nothing on Mickey's dark Italian roast. 

Ian's insides are warming quickly. Mickey didn't skimp on the whiskey, and he's pretty buzzed for eight in the morning. 

At least his hangover is gone. 

"So, you make a habit of bar fights?" Mickey finally breaks the silence. He is smirking at Ian over his coffee cup, eyes sparkling. 

Ian groaned. He thought they'd quashed this shit at the restaurant. "No. I don't." he said, voice sharp. Mickey narrowed his eyes, cocking an eyebrow, and Ian felt like a total tool. "Sorry. That was rude." 

Mickey smiled then, face relaxing. "Nah, it's fine. I'm sure you don't usually have these kinda talks with your arresting officer. I was just curious, y'know, cuz you seem so...nice? Put together? Not at all like the kinda guys I bring in every night of the week." 

Ian sighed, nodding. "Yeah, cuz I'm not. Last night was defiantly an anomaly. I don't know why I let that fucknut get to me. I guess a guy can only take so much. I spent my whole life being called a faggot and a fairy. Pussy, cocksucker. You name it. And I know, I'm old enough now that this kinda shit shouldn't matter, but..." 

"Nah, fuck that." Mickey interrupted. He drained his mug, placing it on his darkwood coffee table before turning to face Ian fully. "You did the right thing. And if I hadn't been on the clock, I'da been right there with ya, holding that prick's arms so you could break his damn ribs." 

Ian laughed, his whole body shaking with it. The thing is, he believes Mickey. Even after only knowing him for less than a day, Ian is certain he could count on Mickey in a drag down, knock out street fight. 

What he doesn't know is why that turns him on so much. 

Ian leans in a little, scooting as close as he can without crawling in Mickey's lap. "Yeah? You wanna get my back the next time I go toe to toe with some homophobe?" 

"Gallagher, I'd get your back for a lot more than a fight, if you'd let me." Mickey replies, unthinking. What the hell is wrong with him? Is he now that guy that makes emotional declarations before his dick is even out? 

God damn it. 

"Shit, Mick. That's fucking sweet." Ian croons, swallowing his nerves as he reaches up with one hand and runs his fingers through Mickey's tousled black hair. Mickey curls into the touch like a cat, his eyes never leaving Ian's. 

Ian gives Mickey a shy little smile, closing the distance between them slowly. Mickey leans in too, and their lips meet in the sweetest, most chaste kiss Mickey's ever experienced. 

It doesn't stay that way. 

Ian surges forward, wrapping his arms around Mickey's body and pulling them together tightly. Mickey goes willingly, spreading his thighs wide and crawling into Ian's lap. He grinds his ass down, delighted at the feeling of Ian's cock hardening under him. 

Ian groans, and Mickey takes the opportunity for what it is, slipping his tongue into Ian's mouth. He tastes like coffee and whiskey and Mickey can't get enough. He threads his fingers through Ian's red hair, pulling savagely. Ian moans and Mickey smirks against his lips, his insides on fire. 

Their tongues tangle outside their mouths as Mickey rocks his hips, undulating on top of Ian in a slow, dirty grind. 

Ian is losing his mind. Mickey can fucking kiss, and Ian is doing his best just to keep up. His hands slide down Mickey's back, over his sharp hips and coming to rest on his ass. 

God, his ass. 

Ian knew it was nice. Those sweats he's wearing leave little to the imagination. But seeing is one thing, and feeling is a whole other. It's round and firm, the muscles flexing under Ian's long fingers as he rolls his hips. 

Mickey's erection is throbbing. He can feel wetness at the tip as he presses their bodies as close as he can with these fucking clothes on. 

Mickey abandons Ian's hair, wrapping his tattooed fingers around Ian's neck instead. He rocks in Ian's lap, turning his head so he can kiss Ian deeper. Ian moans low in his throat, thrusting up off the couch, pulling Mickey down hard onto his clothed cock. 

"Mickey." Ian huffs, sliding his hands down the back of Mickey's joggers, gripping the taut muscles of his ass firmly. "C'mon. I'm gonna come in my fucking pants." 

"We don't want that, do we?" Mickey murmurs, grinning against Ian's lips. He rocks back again, relishing the hot, hard length of Ian's dick resting under his ass. His breath stutters, and his hips jerk. His own hard on grinds against Ian's ridiculous abs, and Mickey loses his breath. 

"Bedroom." Mickey decides, reluctantly releasing Ian so he can stand. He adjusts his aching cock with one hand, holding the other out for Ian. He wiggles his fingers, all the invitation Ian needs. He jumps off the couch like it's on fire, lacing his fingers with Mickey's and eagerly following him down the hall toward the bedroom. 

The bedroom is big. The indigo blue walls give the space an imposing feel. Dark wood furniture takes up the space. A big bureau by the tall window, a set of nightstands on either side of the large bed. More odd artworks adorns the walls. A naked woman being ravaged by some kind of winged demon. A black hole gobbling up some distant universe. It's all very beautiful, and not at all what Ian expected from Mickey's house. 

Ian can hear Mickey moving around behind him, but his attention has been captured by the majesty Mickey's big, intricate bed. 

The frame is metal. Twisted loops and arches of brushed silver. Little silver rings and loops dangle from the headboard and footboard. Ian steps closer, running his fingers along the gentle curve of metal. 

The feel of Mickey's hands on his hips pull Ian back from his thoughts. He turns in Mickey's arms, sliding his hands up around his neck. Mickey is already down to his underwear. Ian is mildly disappointed he missed him undressing. Ian's sure it was quite a sight. 

But Mickey nearly naked is glorious all on it's own. His skin is pale, tinged pink in his excitement. His arms and shoulders are covered in more intricate tattoos. Ian's eyes are drawn to the delicate line work and bold colors of some abstract piece on his chest. 

God, he's beautiful. His body is tight and smooth. Muscles prominent but not overly so. Ian's eyes drag down his tone chest, along the dips and curves of his abs. Mickey's hipbones stand out in stark contrast to the black of his briefs. His thighs are fucking incredible, thick and strong and lean. 

And his ass. Jesus, Ian can not get over that ass. The swell of the muscle barely contained in those tiny little panties. 

Ian wants to bite it. 

He turns back toward the bed, arching his back as Mickey runs his tongue and lips along the curve of his neck. 

"Nice bed." Ian smiles, huffing out a harsh breath as Mickey's tattooed fingers slide under his t shirt. Mickey's hands are cold, and the sensation sends shocks of pleasures shooting through Ian's body. 

"It's good for bondage." Mickey smirks, yanking Ian's shirt up and over his head. "But that's a discussion for another time." 

Bondage? 

Fuck.

Ian's dick is for sure into that. He can feel his erection straining in his jeans, leaking all over his boxers at just the idea. Ian's never done anything like that. He's spanked some dudes, and there was that one guy that really liked to be choked and called a slut. 

But that was worlds away from having a bed made specifically for bondage. How deep into this shit is Mickey? Is Mickey a Dom? What the fuck? 

Ian suddenly feels very overwhelmed. Over his head in a way he hasn't felt about sex in a long time. Maybe ever? 

"You okay?" Mickey asks, his hands resting on Ian's belt. It's open. How did Ian not notice Mickey was still trying to undress him? 

He's gotta get out of his head. 

Mickey is suddenly very nervous. Maybe that comment about bondage was too much? Too soon? Is Ian not into that shit at all?

Mickey had thought the safe word comment the previous evening was a good indicator, but now, he's worried it was just a stupid drunken joke. 

Fuck. 

"Yeah, I'm good." Ian smiled, trying to reassure the other man. Trying to reassure himself. "Just thinking about all the kinky shit we can get into." 

"You do that kinda thing before?" Mickey asks, resuming his disrobing of Ian. He rips Ian's belt from his jeans, tossing it to the floor before going for his zipper. 

"Not really." Ian confesses, feeling like an inexperience rube. "But I've always been curious." 

"Okay then." Mickey smiled, biting his lip. He pulled Ian's jeans down, moving to his knees to get a better angle to tug the denim down his thighs. He left Ian's boxer briefs on for the time being, gently caressing his bare thighs as he stared up at him. "Well, I guess we should talk about all that, but not this time? We'll see how this goes, and if we feel it warrants a repeat, we'll talk in more depth, okay?" 

The idea of exploring his kinks in more depth with Ian is a very enticing idea to Mickey, but he's not naive enough to think they can jump right into that shit without a long, thorough discussion. 

And Mickey is too turned on to pause this shit right now. Besides, who knows if it will even be worth the time? Mickey's had a lot of good sex, with a bunch of different guys, but only a very small handful have been worthy of his trust when it comes to shit like his submission. 

Ian sighed. That sounded like a great idea. "Yeah, okay." 

"Good." Mickey grinned, dragging his jeans over his feet and tossing them across the room. "Oh, by the way." he said, fingers still tucked under the band of Ian's boxers. "I like to take it, but I'm open to switching once in a while." 

Ian gaped down at the cop on his knees. He hadn't even thought to ask, too preoccupied with the big BDSM elephant in the room to even consider anything else. "Oh, yeah. Good." Ian smiled sheepishly down at Mickey. "I usually top, but have been known to switch if, y'know, I...." he trailed off awkwardly, unsure why he felt so out of his depth right now. 

"Good, that's good, Ian. We don't have to do anything until you're comfortable. You gotta know that." Mickey said quietly, taking pity on the poor guy. Mickey can feel the anxiety radiating off the red head, and that's not at all what he wants. "So don't think about all that other shit, okay? You wanna fuck me? Cuz I'm dying to get you inside me, if I'm being honest." 

Ian sighed again, relief flooding his system. He likes Mickey. Even with the odd way they met and the intensity of their connection and the speed with which they are moving. Ian likes him a lot, wants to make a good impression. And he doesn't think he could do that if their first time together was full of shit Ian didn't understand. 

Fucking, he knew. Fucking was something he could do and do well.

All this other stuff would take time and practice. 

That's assuming Mickey even wants more after this.

"Hey." Mickey pinched Ian's ass, drawing his attention back. Ian yelped, his eyes finding Mickey still on his knees. "You sure you're up for this? We don't gotta do nothing." Mickey's eyes were earnest, searching Ian's for some kind of confirmation.

"Yes." Ian insisted. "I do. You're so fucking hot, Mick. On your knees like that. You gonna suck me off?" 

Mickey groaned, his fingers tightening on Ian's hips. "Yeah, I'd like to." he murmured, pressing his face into Ian's covered bulge. Ian's cock jumped at the contact and Mickey groaned again. "May I?" he asks quietly, staring up at Ian with quiet desperation. "Please, Sir?" 

Oh. 

Holy fucking shit. 

Ian gulped, his brain short circuiting. 

He's had this all wrong. 

Mickey the hot cop was into BDSM, okay. 

But he wasn't into dominating. 

He was into being dominated. 

Ian may not know much about this shit, but the idea of having this sexy, powerful man begging him sent a jolt of excitement running down his spine. 

"Yeah." Ian sighed. "Yeah you can." 

Mickey hummed happily, finally pulling Ian's boxers down. Ian kicked them away, spreading his legs as Mickey settled on his knees before him. 

Mickey's tattooed hand wrapped around Ian's erection, stroking slowly. He glanced up at Ian, mouth open. They just stared at each other for a moment. 

"This isn't a scene." Mickey reminded him. "But I use the traffic light system any time I fuck. You know it?" 

Ian nodded. Yeah, he knew it. Green to go, yellow to slow down, red to stop. It's basic shit for even the most vanilla kinksters. 

"And my safe work is sriracha." Mickey hand never stopped moving his hand as he spoke. He languidly jerked Ian off, keeping Ian hard and desperate the entire time. 

"Like the sauce?" Ian groaned, his hips rocking into Mickey's grip. "That's weird." 

Mickey chuckles, rolling his eyes. "They're supposed to be weird. So you know I mean business when I say it. Something you'd never say during sex otherwise. We can use yours, if you want, Skywalker." 

Ian opens his mouth to retort, but the words die on his tongue as Mickey engulfs his cock in one deep swallow. 

Ian staggers, but Mickey's hands are tight on his hips, holding him still. Ian moans loudly, threading his fingers through Mickey's dark hair, guiding the man's movements as he sucks his cock like it's his job. 

Mickey groans, but the sound is muffled. His fingers dig into the sharp bones of Ian's hips as he bobs his head. Ian's cock is magnificent. There is no other word for it. Long and thick, filling up Mickey's mouth just right. He pulls back slowly, hollowing his cheeks and he drags his tongue along the underside. Ian is already shaking, his thighs quivering as Mickey laves languidly at the weeping head. 

"Tastes good." he murmurs, mostly to himself before swallowing Ian down to the hilt. His throat constricts, but he doesn't gag. This isn't his first rodeo. He relaxes himself as best he can, opening his mouth wide and pulling Ian forward with the grip he still has on his hips. Mickey glances up to find Ian already staring down at him. Mickey bares his throat, submissive, and raises his eyebrows in challenge. 

"Shit, you want me to fuck your mouth?" Ian asks, voice laced with wonder. "That what you want?" his fingers tightened in Mickey's hair. Mickey blinked up at him, looking all innocent, nodding as best he could, given the circumstances. "Fuck." Ian groaned. "Okay." 

Mickey hummed happily, working his lips around the tip of Ian's dick. His own cock was aching, but that shit could wait. 

Ian threaded his fingers through Mickey's hair gently before gripping him hard around the back of his head. He rolled his hips shallowly, testing out Mickey's tolerance. Pleased when Mickey moaned around his dick and slurped hungrily at his slit, Ian held his face tight between his palms and started rolling his hips. Fucking into Mickey's warm mouth, tentative at first, then with more power. More passion. 

Fuck. Mickey was dying. Dying and going straight to heaven. He's a born cocksucker, he has no desire to deny that shit anymore. He feels such a surge of power when he's on his knees, turning some dominant, bossy top into a quivering puddle of goo. He doesn't know Ian all that well yet, but when it comes down to it, the feeling is always the same. 

His submissive little ass feels like the most powerful man on the planet. And he eats it up, every single time. 

"Fuck." Ian gasps. "Fuck, shit." 

Mickey preens inwardly, one hand coming up to cup Ian's balls as he drags his lips up and down the shaft. Ian is so responsive, and that is such a fucking turn on. 

Mickey's own dick is painfully hard at this point. He can't take any more of this shit. He's gonna blow if he doesn't stop right now. He pulls off, missing the hot weight in his mouth immediately. His throat is a little sore, and he hopes it stays that way for a while. 

Nice little reminder. Not as good as bruises, but all good things in all good time...hopefully. 

He stands from the floor and takes Ian's hand, pulling him toward the bed. He grabs Ian by the shoulders and spins him so his back is to the mattress before shoving him and sending him flying onto the dark bedspread. He lands on his back, staring up at Mickey as the cop towers over him, looking sexy as sin in only his underwear. His hair is all mussed from Ian's fingers, his lips red and swollen form sucking Ian's cock. His skin is tinged pink, glowing from exertion. He smiles at Ian, but makes no move to join him on the bed. 

"What do you want?" Mickey asks, toying with the waistband of his underwear. His eyes are downcast, only sneaking small, shy glances at Ian. Ian's not sure if it's an act, or if the confident Mickey of a few moments ago is the lie, but either way, Ian's here for it. 

"Take off those panties, and come sit on my lap." Ian says, his voice rough with want. 

Mickey nods, whimpering a little as he moves to comply. Ian calling his underwear 'panties' sends a thrilling surge of shameful lust shooting through his veins. He turns around so his back is to Ian and hooks his thumbs into the band of his underwear. He slowly slides the garment down, bending over and arching his back as the material falls to the floor, revealing his bare ass to Ian's wide-eyed stare. 

Mickey smirks to himself, palming his ass roughly with one hand, giving Ian a little glimpse of his asshole before turning around again. His dick is straining upward, red at the tip and leaking where it curves toward his stomach. He makes no move to touch it, he'll leave that to Ian. 

"Come over here." Ian says, waving Mickey forward with two fingers. "Don't make me ask you again." his voice is dark and commanding, and it sends a thrill down Mickey's spine. 

Fuck. 

Mickey moves quickly, crawling onto the bed and straddling Ian's waist. Their cocks brush and Ian shivers, his hands coming to rest possessively on Mickey's round ass. 

"What do you want?" Mickey repeats, rocking gently in Ian's lap. "Ian, please." Mickey usually doesn't start begging right off. He likes to drag it out, play disobedient. But like he told Ian, this isn't a scene. This is just them fucking cuz they want to. No expectations, no rules to follow or break. Just them, feeling each other out, finding out if they work well this way together. 

"I want you to ride me." Ian decides. He tips his head back against the headboard, thrusting up against Mickey's ass. "I want you to go as fast or as slow as I say. I wanna make you work for it." 

Mickey groans, nodding quickly. He dips his head down and Ian meets him halfway in a messy open mouthed kiss. Ian licks into Mickey's mouth, groaning at the taste of himself on Mickey's tongue. 

"Where's your stuff, Mick?" Ian asks when they pull apart for air. 

Mickey sits up, looking utterly wrecked, he smiles at Ian before leaning over and opening the bedside table drawer. He starts rifling around inside it, looking for supplies. It takes longer that it should, and soon Ian is leaning over with him, looking into the open drawer. 

What he finds in there makes him gasp. A wide array of sex toys fills the drawer. Expensive looking massage oil and more condoms than you see at Planned Parenthood. Dildos, vibrators, cock rings and butt plugs. An oddly comprehensive collection of various kinds of lube. 

It was impressive, if not a bit daunting. 

"Wow." Ian said, still peering over Mickey's shoulder. Mickey tossed a condom wrapped in golf foil onto the bed, along with a bottle of lube Ian's never heard of before. 

"Gun oil?" Ian asks, picking up the bottle to get a better look at it. 

"Yeah, it's good shit if you're into assplay, but god is it expensive." Mickey muttered, moving to close the drawer. 

"You have quiet a bit of sex toys." Ian remarks before Mickey can fully close the drawer. 

"You think that's it?" Mickey laughed, glancing over his shoulder at Ian's gobsmacked face. "Check this shit out." and he opened the bottom drawer. 

Ian leaned over Mickey's back further, sighing as his hard on rubbed against Mickey's ass. He peered into the open drawer and chuckled darkly. "Damn. You are a kinky little shit."

The bottom drawer was full of BDSM toys. Handcuffs, bondage tape, floggers and paddles. Ball gags, blindfolds, restraints Ian's only ever seen in porn. 

"And that's just what fits in the nightstand." Mickey says, closing the door and rolling back to face Ian. "You should see what I've got in the closet." 

Ian swallowed hard, trying not to feel overwhelmed. Mickey already told him they weren't doing all that tonight. Just sex. Ian was good at sex. He put all of Mickey's intoxicating deviance out of his mind, pulling the other man back on top of him. Ian reached down, grabbing Mickey's thighs and spreading them wide over his hips. 

"We'll talk about that another time. Like you said." Ian said, pulling them back into the moment. Mickey nodded, smirking. Ian smiled back. "Okay, I want you to open yourself up for me. Don't touch you dick. I wanna see it all. Put on a show for me. If you're good, I'll fuck you so hard you cry. Deal?" 

Mickey shuddered, grinding his ass on Ian's erection. "Yes. Green." he murmured, head tipped back. He raked his fingernails down Ian's chest, leaving harsh red lines down his pecs. 

"Get to it, then." Ian said, slapping Mickey's ass hard. "Turn around, but stay on top of me, ass facing me. I wanna see how bad you want my cock." 

Mickey moaned, nodding numbly as he scrambled to do as directed. 

Ian watched his lover move, his eyes taking in Mickey's shaky movements. It's like he was drugged or something. Ian has no idea what he's doing. If this thing with Mickey grows legs, Ian's got a lot of research to do. 

But damn, he's not gonna deny the rush of adrenaline he gets when he commands Mickey to do something and the powerful cop just complies. Ian can't imagine what it would be like to have that kind of power over someone like Mickey. He's so strong, so sure of himself. Ian's been on the receiving end of his authority as a police officer. The fact that he'd give up that power willingly to Ian is a heady thing. A compliment and a gift Ian won't take lightly. 

Ian's so wrapped up in his head, he almost misses the show. He silently chastises himself for getting so lost in his head, instead focusing solely on Mickey. And boy, is he glad he did. 

Mickey was bent over on Ian's lap, face pressed into the comforter between Ian's spread legs. His ass was high in the air, swaying slightly, like he just couldn't stay still. He was holding his ass open with one hand, circling his hole with two slick fingers. Ian didn't even see him open the lube. 

"Go on." Ian said, voice hoarse. One of his hands came up, pushing Mickey's away so he could spread his cheeks himself. Mickey nodded against the blankets, sinking two fingers into himself easily. He groaned, his back arching severely. He pumped his fingers in and out slowly, breathing into the stretch. He purposely avoided his prostate, wanting to save that for his lover. 

Mickey was shaking, removing his fingers and sliding back in with three. Ian's hands were heavy on his ass and thighs, rubbing and pinching his skin mindlessly as Mickey worked himself open for his cock.

"Feel good?" Ian asks, running his fingers along Mickey's stretched rim, causing the other man to stutter his movements and grind back into the touch. Ian growled, leaning forward and sinking his teeth into the meat of Mickey's ass. Mickey yelped, the sting of the bite spreading hot erotic pain all along his backside. He groaned, bucking back into the touch hungry for more. 

"Yeah." Ian moaned. "You feel good, alright." 

"Not as good as you're gonna feel. C'mon, m'ready. Please." Mickey's speech was slurring, his cock leaking all over the comforter. He can't take much more of this. "Please. Ian, please." 

"Okay, okay. Turn back around and sit on my dick." Ian chuckled, unable to stop smiling. Mickey all fucked out and begging was just the best thing ever. 

Mickey scrambled to comply, wiping his fingers on the bedspread before turning back around to face Ian. He grabbed the condom, slipping it onto Ian's dick with practiced ease before picking up the lube and slathered Ian's cock with way too much slick before hovering over him and impaling himself on it. No finesse, no sex appeal. Just raw desperation. 

Ian cried out, his body bowing off the bed. Mickey sunk down on him, panting. He dug his fingernails into Ian's chest, savoring the fullness. He swiveled his hips, stuttering out a sigh as Ian's cock moved inside him. 

"You take orders so well." Ian ground out, his fingers flexing on Mickey's ass. "Now fucking ride me. But you better stop when I say so." 

Mickey grinned, nodding, and started to ride Ian in earnest. Engaging his thighs, Mickey inched up until only the tip was still inside him before sinking back down in a slow, dirty slide. "Fuck." he choked out, his hips rocking. He did it again and again, building a steady, strong rhythm. 

Soon, he was fucking himself on Ian's cock hard and fast. Sweat was dripping in his eyes, and his whole body burned with exertion. But god, he never wanted to stop. Ian filled him so well, stretched him so good. A particularly well placed thrust against his prostate had him keening, his whole body trembling. 

"Fuck. Ian." Mickey cried, his fingers shaking against Ian's chest. 

"Stop." Ian said, voice low. His hands clamped down on Mickey's hips, stopping his movement. Mickey's eyes snapped open, brows furrowed. 

"Huh?" he said, trying to rock his hips again.

"Uh uh." Ian smirked. "C'mere. Kiss me." 

Mickey growled, but leaned forward, slotting their lips together. They made out hungrily, nipping at each others lips, tongues and teeth and spit everywhere. Mickey whined against Ian's mouth, his body making these little aborted thrusts. Ian held him still through it all. Ian pulled Mickey's face to the side, moving to suck and bite at his neck, whispering filthy shit into his ear as Mickey panted and whined on top of him. Ian dragged his hands along the sweaty expanse of Mickey's back, mapping out the muscles with his fingertips. 

"So pretty like this." Ian murmured, running his tongue along the shell of Mickey's ear. "Writhing on my cock, desperate for more. Knew you'd look so perfect on my dick the minute I laid eyes on you. You're gorgeous. Even prettier when you're begging." 

"Please." Mickey moaned, right on cue. "Please." 

"Not yet." Ian replied, a wicked smile on his face. "Let's play a little more, alright?" 

Mickey nodded, sighing in relief when Ian released his tight grip on his hips. Mickey immediately started bouncing on his cock again. Throwing his head back and resting his hands on Ian's thighs, Mickey thrust down hard. His vision went white as pleasure shot through his body. Ian's hands were all over him. His chest, his abs. His ass and thighs. But not his dick. 

Mickey's dick bounced with every roll of his hips. Angry red at the tip and steadily leaking precome. But he won't touch it. Can't touch it unless Ian says so. Of course, he's too far gone now to mention that. All he can do is hold on for the ride and hope Ian can read him. 

Pressure is building in Mickey's balls. Every thrust down on that glorious dick inside him brings him closer to the edge. Maybe he can't hold on like he wants to. He wants to be good, but this is so....so much. 

"Stop." Ian groans, hands pressed against Mickey's chest. Mickey whines, a low, needy sound. 

"Please." he says again. Seems like that's the only word he knows anymore. 

"You want it?" Ian asks, instead of answering him. Mickey nods jerkily, pinching his eyes shut. He is full on desperate now, and it's clear that Ian knows that. "Okay, I'll give you what you need." Ian says, his tone smug. "Just make me come first." 

Mickey's eyes snap open, and he stares down at Ian. "What?" he asks, like a dumbass. 

"Make me come." Ian repeats slowly, like he's talking to a toddler. "You're just gonna have to trust me." 

Mickey stares down at Ian. Trust him? He barely knows the guy. But...his dick is buried seven inches inside his body right now, so maybe he trusts him a little bit. He at least trusts him not to leave him hanging after he reaches his own orgasm.

So Mickey nods again, and sets to work. Ian is no longer holding him back, so Mickey just loses himself in it. He leans over Ian's body and works his ass on his dick hard. God, it feels so good. Ian huge and hard, throbbing inside him as Mickey's ass works him over relentlessly. 

"Fuck, Mick. That's it." Ian groans, palming Mickey's ass roughly. "You feel so good, baby. Fucking yourself on me like that. Do I feel good too? Fill you up just right?" Ian's close. His balls are tight, aching for release, but he isn't quite ready to let go just yet. This just feels too fucking perfect. 

The pet name does something to Mickey. No one's ever called him baby before. He knows, logically, that he should hate it. It's patronizing and infantalizing. But fuck, he kinda likes it. Sounds good on Ian's lips. He fucks himself back hard onto Ian's dick, taking it as deep as he can, groaning with each brush of his prostate. He arches and writhes on Ian, rubbing his hard on all over Ian's abs, spreading precome all over his tight stomach. 

"Ian, please." Mickey groans into Ian's neck, nipping softly at the skin beneath his ear. "Gotta come." 

"Almost there. Just keep going. God, you feel so good. Ass is so tight. Perfect for me. Shit." 

The praise goes straight to Mickey's head, and he loses the last shreds of his control. He sits back up straight, planting his hands on Ian's chest as he starts bouncing in his lap. He throws his head back, crying out as he fucks himself as hard as he can on Ian's cock. 

Ian's done for. Watching Mickey rocking in his lap, eyes glazed over, face flushed. It's too much. He's fucking gorgeous, and he's here with Ian. 

"That's it. Good boy, Mick. I'm gonna....fuck." Ian's body goes rigid, his fingernails cutting into the pink skin of Mickey's hips as he comes harder than he has in ages. It takes him over in waves of pleasure so powerful he feels drunk on it. He holds Mickey down on top of him as his hips twitch and shudder as he fills the condom with his release. Once he's come down from the aftershocks, he opens his eyes to find Mickey still rocking on his deflating dick. Ian threads his fingers through his sweaty black hair, wrapping the other one around his purpling, neglected cock. He pulls Mickey's face down to his, licking into his mouth heatedly. Ian thrusts up sharply, jerking Mickey's cock fast and hard. 

"So good, Mickey." Ian whispers against his mouth. "Perfect for me. Made me come so hard. C'mon now, come for me. I know you wanna."

Mickey whimpers, his body jerking. The sensation was too much. Ian buried inside his ass, his long, slender fingers stripping his cock so perfectly. He buried his face in Ian's neck, just letting the other man do whatever he wants. 

"Come, Mickey." Ian whispers, kissing his neck lightly. "C'mon. Come for me." 

The words were so tender, said so gently. A stark contrast to just a few moments earlier. It was enough to send Mickey over the edge. A strangled shout ripped out of his throat as his body convulsed and he came hard all over Ian's chest and hand. 

Mickey was shivering, his whole body quaking through the aftershocks of such an intense encounter. Such a sweet, glorious orgasm. He was sated and his head felt soupy. He collapsed on top of Ian with a little grunt. 

Ian wrapped both arms around Mickey's back, just holding him. This felt like much more than a random hook up. Ian felt a strange surge of emotions overtake him as he laid there, cradling the shivering cop in his embrace. 

Minutes passed and neither of them moved. Ian's dick softened and slipped out of Mickey, and Ian knew that was his cue to act. 

"Hey Mick, bathroom?" Ian asks softly, running his fingers through Mickey's hair. 

"Door by the balcony." Mickey mumbled, not bothering to lift his head. Ian chuckled, gently laying Mickey out on the bed and moving to stand. He walked naked to the bathroom and grabbed a washcloth off the shelf. He wet it with warm water and moved to grab somethings form the kitchen before returning to the bedroom. 

He found Mickey on the bed still, sitting up against the pillows with a shit eating grin on his face. 

"You raid my fridge, Gallagher?" Mickey smirked, motioning to the bottles of water and bag of Hershey's Kisses in his hand. 

"Uh, well. Yes." Ian handed Mickey one of the bottles of water and placed the rest of the stuff on the nightstand. He waved the washcloth at Mickey with a little smile. "Can I, uh, clean you up?" he offered nervously.

Mickey gave Ian the warmest smile he could muster. Here's this guy that he barely knows, a guy he just fucked on a whim, a guy who knows nothing about BDSM or anything Mickey's into, really. And he's here, looking all school boy sheepish, trying to offer aftercare. 

Mickey's smitten. 

"Yeah, that'd be real nice. Thank you." Mickey smiled, spreading his legs with a smirk. Ian grinned back, pleased somewhere deep inside that Mickey would let him take care of him this way. Most of Ian's one night stands got all huffy if he got too personal. 

But Mickey wasn't just some random one night stand. At least, Ian hoped he wasn't. 

After they were both cleaned up, Ian stood awkwardly by the bed while Mickey sipped his water and popped little kisses into his mouth. Ian wasn't sure what the protocol was for this. Usually, when he fucked someone he just met, he left right after. Sometimes he'd get a phone number, but he never used it. 

He didn't want that with Mickey. He wanted more. 

He wanted everything. 

It was an odd thought, especially considering how they met, and what they did mere hours after that meeting. But it was true. That's how he felt. 

The thing is, he's not sure Mickey feels the same. 

"I, uh, guess I better go?" Ian said, glancing around the room for his underwear. "You worked all night, you're probably beat." Ian's neck was burning with embarrassment. How he could go from complete control in the heat of the moment to being a stuttering idiot as soon as his boner went away, he'll never know. 

But here we are. 

"Do you want to go?" Mickey asks, setting his water down on the nightstand and crawling over to Ian. They're both still naked, and while Ian is suddenly shy and nervous, Mickey still feels calm and happy. 

A good orgasm will do that to a guy. 

"I..no?" Ian shrugged, smiling when Mickey grabbed both his hands and dragged him back into the bed. "I just don't want to overstay my welcome, I suppose." 

Mickey just hummed, pushing Ian to lay back on the pillows. He pulled the dirty comforter over their naked bodies, curling up against Ian and resting his head on his shoulder. 

"I'm not kicking you out." Mickey murmured, laying a gentle kiss on Ian's shoulder. "In case it wasn't clear, I don't do this kinda thing. Not just that I don't fuck people I arrest, I mean I don't ever take anyone home. Not unless I'm serious." 

"Serious?" Ian asks, hope blooming in his chest. 

"Yeah, serious." Mickey pulls back so he can look into Ian's wide green eyes. "If I want just a fuck, I can get that at any of the clubs I patronize." 

"Clubs?" Ian echoed. "Like dungeons?" 

Mickey laughed, rolling his eyes. "I guess you can call 'em that. But that's not my point. My point is I don't bring people to my house unless I'm interested in more than a fuck. I like you, Ian. Even if you are a mess when you're drunk. You're funny, and nice. Not at all stuck up. I like you, and I'd like to see where this goes." Mickey's smile faded the slightest bit, his brow furrowing. "Unless you're not interested. Then of course, you're free to go. " 

Ian's body warmed instantly, a rush of excitement tingling in his chest. "Oh, I'm for sure interested." 

Mickey grinned, threading his fingers through Ian's hair. He yanked the other man closer, pulling him into a consuming, heated kiss. 

When they separated, they were both panting, dizzy with excitement over the possibilities of their burgeoning relationship. 

"So." Mickey said, tracing his tattooed fingers along the exposed planes of Ian's chest. "Did you like that stuff we just did?" 

"You mean the like, bondage-y shit?" Ian asks, blushing again. God, he knows a lot about sex, but this is one thing he is woefully ignorant about. 

"I guess you could call it that." Mickey chuckled. "Like I said before, we don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with. Vanilla sex is still hot if your partner knows what they're doing. I just thought you seemed kinda into it, is all..." now Mickey's the nervous one. Not everyone is into the kinky shit Mickey is. And he's being honest, he doesn't need bondage and pain play to get off. 

It's just nice to have on the table. 

"I, well, I don't know a whole lot about it." Ian admitted sheepishly. "You'd have to, you'd have to show me. I'm sorry." 

Mickey scoffed, smiling. "Ian, everyone has to learn sometime. You think I came outta the womb the world's perfect sub?" 

"Well no, but. Aren't I suppose to, like, know everything? Call the shots, take care of you? Isn't it how it works for a Dom?" 

"Oh boy." Mickey laughed, curling around Ian's body. "You've got a lot to learn. Here, hand me my laptop. I gotta school your ass." 

Ian laughed along, reaching for the computer on the nightstand. He stopped short, turning back to face Mickey. 

"What?" Mickey asks, eyebrows raised. 

"Before we get into what kind of kinks we share, Mickey, can I take you to dinner?" 

Mickey rolled his eyes, but he can't hide his smile. He's got a puppy Dom-in-training on his hands. And he couldn't be happier about it. 

"Yeah, I'd like that." Mickey smiled, leaning up to plant a sweet, chaste kiss on Ian's lips. "Now hand me that computer. We're gonna order you some toys."

Ian laughed, wrapping his arms tightly around Mickey's middle and tackling him to the bed. "We'll shop for crops later. I wanna show you what else I like first." Ian ground his thickening cock against Mickey's thigh, grinning when the man beneath him groaned, his eyes rolling back in his head, his own cock responding to Ian's tone immediately.

"Yes sir." Mickey sighed. "Whatever you say." 

***

8 months later. 

"Y'know." Mickey said, sitting down next to Ian at the bar. "When I met you, I didn't think this would end up being our place." 

Ian laughed, turning to give Mickey a sweet kiss on the lips. "You didn't think much when we first met, I don't think." 

"I thought you were sexy as fuck." Mickey insisted. "And drunker than a sailor on leave." 

"That he was." Peter laughed from behind the bar. "The usual Mick?" 

"Yeah, thanks Pete." Mickey said, grinning at the bartender. 

"Another, Ian?" Peter asks, filling a glass with dark ale and passing it to Mickey. 

"Nah, I'm good." Ian said, eyeing his half full beer. 

"He's always on his best behavior when his boyfriend's here." Peter chuckled, moving onto other patrons as Ian and Mickey settled in. 

They'd been coming back to McGills since their second date. It was close to Ian's apartment and on Mickey's beat, so they both found it convenient. Not to mention the fact that Mickey got a kick out of hanging out at the bar where they 'met'. Peter was even the bartender on staff that night, the one that called the cops on Ian. 

Peter has become a good friend of theirs, and tells anyone that will listen that he's the matchmaker that brought them together. 

Mickey thinks it's hilarious, Ian thinks it's endlessly embarrassing. 

Win-win for Mickey. 

But all that nostalgia aside, tonight is a big night for them. Ian just doesn't know it yet. 

Mickey is a bundle of nerves. He's never like this, always cool under pressure. He has to be, for his job. But this is different. 

Ian is always different. 

"So, what did Svet say when you talked to her?" 

"She was bitchy, as usual. But I think I convinced her to loosen the reigns a bit." Mickey has been planning to take Yevgeny to Michigan Adventure Park for his birthday. The thing is it's three hours away, and they'd be taking him overnight. Svetlana was a hard ass, making Mickey jump through all these hoops for a couple days with his son. But he was willing to jump through those hoops, for his kid. 

"Yeah?" Ian smiled, sipping his drink. "She's cool with just the three of us, then?" 

"Yeah." Mickey smiled back. "As long as we send her pics every couple of hours." 

"We can do that. Not like I won't be taking a shit ton of pics anyway. Birthday road trip!" Ian was giddy, and his enthusiasm was infectious. 

Mickey can only hope Ian's as receptive to his next idea. "So, I was thinking." Mickey started. "I wanna take a new step. Together." Mickey swallowed, nerves building in his stomach. 

"Mick." Ian stage whispered. "Is this about the St. Andrew's Cross? I thought we put that on the back burner." 

Mickey rolled his eyes, even as his dick twitched in his pants. Ian may have been greener than green when they first met, but he's been steadily learning and growing since they started dating. They still have a ways to go, but Ian is respectful of Mickey's boundaries and willing to stretch his own kink muscles. He's a good Dom to Mickey. A gentle one, which is not something Mickey knew he needed until he found it. He feels safe and happy, in their relationship and their bedroom. 

More than Mickey ever thought he could have, honestly. 

Which is why this is so hard for him right now. He's scared to screw it up. Scared he's misread the signals, or he's moving too fast. 

But he just smiles and pushes on, no going back now. 

"No, you jackass. This isn't about anything like that." he laughed. "Although, our package did come today." 

"Oh?" Ian smirked. "That hand-tooled paddle and leather cuffs?" 

Mickey nodded, and Ian bit his lip. Damn, that's gonna be hot. 

"Well, let's get the fuck outta here there, we got better shit to do." Ian moved to stand, but Mickey laid a hand on his wrist. 

"Ian, wait. I wanna ask you something, remember?" Mickey smiled, but it felt strained on his face. Ian must notice, because he sits down heavily on his stool, glancing at Mickey with worry in his eyes. 

"What is it, Mick?" 

Mickey took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Nodding to himself, he looked straight into Ian's eyes, giving him a nervous little smile. He took a small key chain out of his pocket. A miniature replica of the Death Star. A little inside joke about the night they met. Ian's safe word. 

On the key chain was one key. The key to Mickey's apartment.

"Ian, I love you, you know that." when Ian nodded, he continued. "Being around you is the best part of my day. I hate it when you gotta go home, or can't come over cuz of work or when you are just too tired or whatever. I miss you when you're not around. I wanna be with you whenever I can. So, uh, do you wanna move in with me?" there, he said it. 

Ball's in Ian's court now. 

Ian just stares, slack-jawed. His brain is in overdrive. An endless loop of 'holy fuck' runs through his mind. It feels like an out of body experience. 

"Ian?" Mickey's worried voice pulls Ian out of his head. A gentle hand on the side of his face grounds him back in the moment. Ian smiles brilliantly at Mickey, launching himself off his bar stool and into Mickey's open arms. 

"Yes!" Ian squeals. "Holy shit! Yes, Mick. Of course I wanna live with you." 

Mickey smiles, wrapping his arms tightly around his boyfriend. His live-in boyfriend. Damn. 

So much can change so fast. Mickey is damn grateful for that. 

Ian kisses him then. Kisses him hard on the lips, his tongue pushing it's way into Mickey's mouth insistently. Everything else fades away, and it's just them. Their hearts beating, their mouths moving against each other, their bodies entwined tightly together. 

It's a sour, rude voice that pulls them out of the moment. 

"See that bullshit, Eric. Fucking disgusting." 

Ian knows that voice. 

God damn it. 

He pulls away from Mickey to see Dave the Homophobe and his buddy Eric sitting at the other end of the bar. Right where they were the night Ian met Mickey. 

"Dave, man. Don't fucking start." his friend said, laying a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder.

"Is that who I think it is?" Mickey asks, hackles rising. When Ian nods, Mickey is instantly consumed by rage. He takes a deep breath, nodding. 

Okay then. 

He lays his badge out on the bar, smiling at his boyfriend before walking over to the homophobic motherfucker that thought swinging on his Ian was a good idea all those months ago. 

"You got a problem, friend?" Mickey asks, rubbing at his eyebrow. It doesn't seem like the guy remembers Mickey. Probably too drunk, then and now, to make the connection. 

"I do." the guy slurred. He stood from his seat, swaying. "I don't come to this bar to watch faggots make out. It's fucking disgusting. Why don't you take your fairy asses down to the queer bars? Let the real men have places like this." 

"Real men?" Mickey chuckled, shaking his head. "You think you're a real man cuz you what? Like pussy, or you swing on innocent strangers when they threaten your fragile masculinity?" 

The guy was fuming. Mickey could tell. "You wanna go, bro?" he asks, taking a threatening step forward. 

"You don't wanna do that, buddy." Mickey said, nodding to Peter, who already had the phone in his hand. Peter started dialing, and Mickey knew the cops would be there soon. 

"I do what the fuck I want, faggot." the guy spat, swinging on Mickey. Mickey dodged the punch easily, wrapping his arms around the man and tackling him to the ground. He pinned him easily, but the drunk bastard wiggled insistently, kicking his legs. 

Mickey can't help but wonder sometimes if dealing with Terry's bullshit all those years made him an expert at taking down these fuckheads.

"Dude, I'm a cop. Stop." Mickey said, wrenching his arms behind his back. 

"Fuck you, faggot pig." the guy screamed. "Fucking offa me, cocksucker." 

Mickey just sighed, keeping the bastard pinned until the on duty cops arrived. He could make the arrest himself, but seeing as he was the 'victim' this time, it seemed inappropriate. 

A couple of guys from his precinct showed up and hauled the bastard away. His friend, Eric, apologized profusely before taking off to bail him out again. 

Once the dust settled, Ian and Mickey sat back down at the bar. Peter pushed two more glasses full of beer in front of them with a small smile. "Sorry guys, that one's on me. He hasn't caused a problem since his fight with Ian." 

"It's fine." Ian shrugs, taking a sip of his new beer. 

"It's not, though." Peter insisted. "He's barred for life. You guys are loyal customers, and good guys. I don't want you to feel uncomfortable coming here." 

"It takes a lot more than a little name calling to get to us, buddy." Mickey smiled, looping his arm around Ian's shoulder. 

"Gotta say, though." Peter mused. "It never gets old watching you take down drunk idiots."

"Hey!" Ian exclaimed, laying a hand on his chest in mock offense. "That was a one time thing." 

"Best thing that ever happened to me." Mickey grinned. 

"I should resist arrest more often." Ian chuckled. 

"Like you could ever resist me." Mickey laughed, waggling his eyebrows. 

"Oh, Mick. That was so bad." Ian groaned, rolling his eyes. "You're gonna pay for that smart mouth later." 

"Oh am I, Sir?" Mickey asks, licking his lips. He leans in running his tattooed fingers along Ian's inner thigh. 

"Yep." Ian said, popping the 'P' and standing stiffly. "Peter, close up our tab, please." 

Peter chuckled, and Mickey grinned, knowing he had won. 

He's getting punished tonight. 

"Up, c'mon. Let's go." Ian said, tossing Mickey his coat as he dropped a twenty on the bar. "You're in trouble, buddy." 

Mickey just smiled, waving at Peter and following his boyfriend out of the bar. 

Once they were on the street Ian laced their fingers together, dragging Mickey toward their apartment. THEIR apartment. How fucking cool is that? 

"Y'know, Mick, I still get a little thrill watching you take down a perp like that." 

"Don't call them perps, Ian." Mickey groaned. "Jesus."

"Just saying, it's sexy is all." Ian laughed. "It's hot when they resist, and you just take 'em down so easy. You must have some awesome stories about shit like that." 

Mickey laughed, shrugging. "Honestly, they all bleed together. None of them really stand out all that much. Except my first major conviction, and you of course." 

Ian blushed, looking away. Sometimes he's still embarrassed about how they met. 

"Hey, look at me." Mickey said, pulling on Ian's hand. They stopped right there in the middle of the sidewalk, the setting sun glowing behind Ian's head. "I wouldn't change a damn thing. I don't care how we met. I'm just glad we did." 

"Yeah?" Ian replied, reaching up with one hand to card his fingers through Mickey's hair. 

"Yeah." Mickey replied, smiling. "You were right, back at the bar. You could resist arrest all damn day, but I never could resist you." 

Ian laughed, shaking his head. But he was smiling. "Kiss me." 

So Mickey did, right there in the middle of the busy Chicago street. He kissed Ian, and everything else melted away, just like always. 

Mickey's arrested countless people over the years. Taken them down, brought them in, captured them. 

But Ian's the only one who captured him. Body, mind and soul. 

Thank god for drunken red headed idiots resisting arrest.

**Author's Note:**

> this was fun. now onto write my halloween fic. thanks for reading. see you at the next one. 
> 
> Delta Six: the code name for Mick & Drea's squad car
> 
> 10-10 in progress: Fight in progress
> 
> St. Andrew's Cross: just a big wooden X used for BDSM. Cuffs at the top and bottom, for your wrists and ankles. it looks purely medieval, but pretty bad ass at the same time. 
> 
> *fun fact* the bottom lounge is a real bar, that really does have live music. if i ever get to chicago, i may just have to check it out
> 
> PSA- i am in no way an expert on BDSM. i am a novice at best. so please, take this for what it is: a work of fun fiction written to entertain.


End file.
